





.1 ' • « % ''” ' ,o’^‘^c“’' ‘ » 




.0 c^ 

V xO sT 


r 


‘* y « o » fy ^ 

°\. *■’•*"’ 0 "' . ’■ • 0 /” * 


^ iA<’ ^ 

" V' ,^v 


^ '^* >» SI 


vV 


^ 0 ^ ^ /O 'Vo 

cP’ 

^ <S 


"i o" : 


•J • 'r w 

'^. * • 



« ^ 



^ ^ N C\^ 

^ fl 1 A 

s' 


^// 

















A MYSTERY OF THE 

C AM PAGNA 

AND 

A SHADOW ON A WAVE 


THE “ UNKNOWN LIBRARY 


. THE 

“UNKNOWN” LIBRARY. 

1. ML.LE. IXE. By Lanoe 

Falconer. 

2. STORY OF ELEANOR 

LAMBERT. By Magda- 
len Brooke. 

3. MYSTERY OF THE 

CAMPAGNA. By Von 
Degen. 


THE “ UNKNOWN'* LIBRARY, 


MYSTERY OF THE 
CAMPAGNA 


\ Shadow on a Wave 




)\<xjpL (Xr'y^A 'L C Y Aft ■ 
'* X 
/ 

VON DEGEN 


- .'r C„_y^ 

,.ri? 1B9! , ' 

i^ Yio ' ^ ‘ ^ 


NEW YORK 

.SSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY 
104 & 106 Fourth Avenue 



Copyright, 1891, by 

CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY. I. 

f 

A ll rights reserved. 


1 



THE MERSHON COMPANY PRE 


RAHWAY, N. J. 


! 



I A MYSTERY OF THE 
CAMPAGNA. 


1 . 


[ARTIN DETAILLE’S ACCOUNT 
OF- WHAT HAPPENED AT THE 
VIGNA MARZIALI. 



ARCELLO’S voice is 
pleading with me now, 
perhaps because after 
years of separation I 
have met an old ac- 
quaintance who had a 
art in his strange story. I have 
longing to tell it, and have 
sked Monsieur Sutton to help 
le. -He noted down the cir- 
umstances at the time, and he 
> willing to join his share to 


I 


2 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


mine, that Marcello may b 
remembered. 

One day, it was in spring, h 
appeared in my little studi 
among the laurels and gree 
alleys of the Villa Medic 
“ Come, mon enfant^' he sai( 
“ put up your paints ” ; and h 
unceremoniously took my palett 
out of my hand. “ I have a ca 
waiting outside, and we ai 
going in search of a hermitage. 
He was already washing m 
brushes as he spoke, and th 
softened my heart, for I hate t 
do it myself. Then he pulle 
off my velvet jacket and toe 
down my respectable coat froi 
a nail on the wall. I let hij 
dress me like a child. 
always did his will, and he kne 
it, and in a moment we wei 
sitting in the cab, driving throug 
the Via Sistina on our way 1 
the Porta San Giovanni, whith< 
he had directed the coachman i 
go. 

I must tell my story as I ca; 
for though I have been told | 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 3 


my comrades, who cannot know 
very well that I can speak good 
English, writing it is another 
thing. Monsieur Sutton has 
asked me to use his tongue, 
because he has so far forgotten 
mine that he will not trust him- 
self in it, though he has promised 
to correct my mistakes, that 
what I have to tell you may not 
seem ridiculous, and make people 
laugh when they read of Marcello. 
I tell him I wish _ to write this 
for my countrymen, not his ; but 
he reminds me that Marcello 
had many English friends who 
still live, and that- the English do 
not forget as we do. It is of 
no use to reason with him, for 
neither do they yield as we do, 
and so I have consented to his 
wish. I think he has a reason 
which he does not tell me — but 
let it go. I will translate it all 
into my own language, for my 
own people. Your English 
phrases seem to me to be always 
walking sideways, or trying to 
look round the corner, or stand 


4 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


upon their heads, and they have 
as many little tails as a kite. I 
will try not to have recourse to 
my own language, but he must 
pardon me if I forget myself. 
He may be sure I do not do it 
to offend him. Now that I 
have explained so much, let me 
go on. 

When we had passed out of 
the Porta San Giovanni, the 
coachman drove as slowly as he 
liked. The pay is more outside 
the gates, and they always pre- 
tend then that their horses are 
tired, and creep as slowly as 
possible ; but Marcello was 
never practical. How could he 
be, I ask you, with an Opera in 
his head ? So we crawled along, 
and he gazed dreamily before 
him. At last, when we had 
reached the part where the little 
villas and vineyards begin, he be- 
gan to look about him. 

You all know how it is out 
there; iron gates, with rusty 
names or initials over them, and 
beyond them straight walks, bor- 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 5 


dered with roses and lavender, 
leading up to a forlorn little 
casino, with trees and a wilder- 
ness behind it, sloping down to 
the Campagna ; lonely enough 
to be murdered in and no one 
to hear you cry. We stopped 
at several of these gates and 
Marcello stood looking in, but 
none of the places were to his 
taste. He seemed not to doubt 
that he might have whatever 
pleased him, but nothing did so. 
He would jump out and run to 
the gate, and return saying, 
“ The shape of those windows 
would disturb my inspiration,” 
or, That yellow paint would 
make me fail my duet in the 
second act ” ; and once he liked 
the air of the house well enough, 
but there were marigolds growing 
in the walk, and he hated them. 
So we drove on and on, until 
I thought we should find nothing 
more to reject. At last we came 
to one which suited him, though 
it was terribly lonely, and I 
should *have fancied it very 


6 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


aga(^ant to live so far away from 
the world with nothing but those | 
melancholy olives and green j 
oaks — ilexes, you call them — for | 
company. 

“ I shall live here and become 
famous!’' he said, decidedly, 
as he pulled the iron rod which 
rang a great bell inside. We 
waited, and then he rang again 
very impatiently and stamped his 
foot. 

No one lives here, mo7t 
vieiix ! Come, it is getting late, 
and it is so damp out here, and 
you know that the damp for a 
tenor voice — He stamped his 
foot again and interrupted me, 
angrily. 

“ Why, then, have you got a 
tenor! You are stupid! a bass 
would be more sensible ; nothing 
hurts it. But you have not got 
one, and you call yourself my 
friend ! Go home without me.” 
How could I, so far on foot? 

“ Go and sing your lovesick 
songs to your lean English 
misses! They will thank you 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 7 


with a cup of abominable tea, 
and you will be in Paradise ! 
This is my Paradise, and I shall 
stay until the angel comes to 
open it ! ” 

He was very cross and un- 
reasonable, and those were just 
the times when one loved him 
most, so I waited and enveloped 
my throat in my pocket-hand- 
kerchief and sang a passage or 
two just to prevent my voice 
from becoming stiff in that damp 
air. 

“Be still! silence yourself ! ’* he 
cried. “ I cannot hear if any 
one is coming.” 

Some one came at last, a rough- 
looking sort of keeper, or giiar- 
diano, as they are called there, 
who looked at us as though he 
thought we were mad. One of 
us certainly was, but it was not 
I. Marcello spoke pretty good 
Italian, with a French accent, 
it is true, but the man under- 
stood him, especially as he held 
his purse in his hand. I heard 
him say a great many impetu- 


8 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


ously persuasive things all in a 
breath, then he slipped a gold 
piece into the guardiano s horny 
hand, and the two turned to- 
ward the house, the man shrug- 
ging his shoulders in a resigned 
sort of way, and Marcello called 
out to me over his shoulder: 

^‘Go home in the cab, or you 
will be late for your horrible 
English party ! I am going to 
stay here to-night.” Ma foi! I 
took his permission and left 
him ; for a tenor voice is as 
tyrannical as a jealous woman. 
Besides, I was furious, and yet 
I laughed. His was the artist 
temperament, and appeared to 
us by turns absurd, sublime, and 
intensely irritating; but this last 
never for long, and we all felt 
that were we more like him our 
pictures would be worth more. 
I had not got as far as the city 
gate when my temper had cooled, 
and I began to reproach myself 
for leaving him in that lonely 
place with his purse full of 
money, for he was not poor at 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA, 9 


all, and tempting the dark guar- 
diano to murder him. Nothing 
could be easier than to kill him 
in his sleep and bury him away 
somewhere under the olive trees 
or in some old vault of a ruined 
catacomb, so common on the 
borders of the Campagna. There 
were sure to be a hundred such 
convenient places. I stopped the 
coachman and told him to turn 
back, but he shook his head and 
said something about having to 
be in the Piazza of St. Peter at 
eight o’clock. His horse began 
to go lame, as though he had 
understood his master and were 
his accomplice. What could I 
do? 1 said to myself that it 
was fate, and let him take me 
back to the Villa Medici, where 
I had to pay him a pretty sum 
for our crazy expedition, and 
then he rattled off, the horse 
not lame at all, leaving me 
bewildered at this strange after- 
noon. 

I did not sleep well that night, 
though my tenor song had been 


lO A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


applauded, and the English 
misses had caressed me much. 
I tried not to think of Marcello, 
and he did not trouble me much 
until I went to bed ; but then I 
could not sleep, as I have told 
you. I fancied him already 
murdered, and being buried in 
the darkness by the guardiano, 
I saw the man dragging his 
body, with the beautiful head 
thumping against the stones, 
down dark passages, and at last 
leaving it, all bloody and covered 
with earth, under a black arch 
in a recess, and coming back to 
count the gold pieces. But then 
again I fell asleep, and dreamed 
that Marcello was standing at 
the gate and stamping his foot ; 
and then I slept no more, but 
got up as soon as the dawn 
came, and dressed myself, and 
went to my studio at the end of 
the laurel walk. I took down 
my painting jacket, and remem- 
bered how he had pulled it off 
my shoulders. I took up the 
brushes he had washed for me ; 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. II 


they were only half cleaned after 
all, and stiff with paint and 
soap. I felt glad to be angry 
with him, and sacrd'd. a little, for 
it made me sure that he was 
yet alive if I could scold at him. 
Then I pulled out my study of 
his head for my picture of 
Mucius Scaevola holding his 
hand in the flame, and then I 
forgave him ; for who could look 
upon that face and not love it? 

I worked with the fire of 
friendship in my brush, and did 
my best to endow the features 
with the expression of scorn and 
obstinacy I had seen at the 
gate. It could not have been 
, more suitable to my subject ! 
1 Had I seen it for the last time? 
You will ask me why I did not 
leave my work and go to see if 
anything had happened to him, 
but against this there were 
several reasons. Our yearly 
exhibition was not far off and 
my picture was' barely painted 
in, and my comrades had sworn 
that it would not be ready. I 


12 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


was expecting a model for the 
King of the Etruscans; a man 
who cooked chestnuts in the 
Piazza Mohtanara, and who had 
consented to stoop to sit to me , 
as a great favor ; and then, to 
tell the truth, the morning was 
beginning to dispel my fancies. 

I had a good northern light to 
work by, with nothing senti- 
mental about it, and I was not 
fanciful by nature ; so when I 
sat down to my easel I told 
myself that I had been a fool, 
and that Marcello was perfectly 
safe ; the smell of the paints 
helping me to feel practical 
again. Indeed, I thought every 
moment that he would come in, 
tired of his caprice already, and 
even was preparing and practic- 
ing a little lecture for him. 
Some one knocked at my door, : 
and I cried Entrez ! ” thinking 
it was he at last ; but no, it was 
Pierre Magnin. 

“ There is a- curious man, a ' 
man of the country, who wants 
you,” he said. “ He has your 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 13 


address on a dirty piece of paper 
in Marcello’s handwriting, and a 
letter for you, but he wont give 
it up. He says he must see ^ il 
Signor Martino.’ He’d make a 
superb model for a murderer ! 
Come and speak to him, and 
keep him while I get a sketch of 
his head.” 

I followed Magnin through 
the garden, and outside, for the 
porter had not allowed him to 
enter. I found the giiardiano of 
yesterday. He showed his white 
teeth, and said, “ Good day, 
signore,” like a Christian ; and 
I here in Rome he did not look 
I half so murderous — only a stupid, 
brown, country fellow. He had 
a rough peasant - cart waiting, 
*and he had tied up his shaggy 
horse to a ring in the wall. I 
held out my hand for the letter 
and pretended to find it difficult 
to read, for I saw Magnin stand- 
ing with his sketch-book in the 
shadow of the entrance hall. 
The note said this : I have it 
still and I will copy it. It was 


14 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


written in pencil on a leaf torn 
from his pocket-book : 

“ Mon vieiix / I have passed 
a good night here, and the mani 
will keep me as long as I like. 
Nothing will happen to me, 
except that I shall be divinely 
quiet, and I have already 
famous motif in my head. Go 
to my lodgings and pack up 
some clothes and all my manu- 
scripts, with plenty of music 
paper and a few bottles of Bor 
deaux, and give them to m3- 
messenger. Be quick about it ! 

“ Fame is preparing to descenc 
upon me ! If you care to set 
me, do not come before eigh' 
days. The gate will not b( ^ 
opened if you come sooner ® 
The giiardiayio is my slave, anc 
he has instructions to kill an’^ 
intruder who in the guise of ; 
friend tries to get in uninvited 
He will do it, for he hasconfesset ? 
to me that he has murdered thre 
men already.” 

(Of course this was a joke. 
knew Marcello’s way.) 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 15 

“ When you come, go to the 
paste restante and fetch my letters. 
Here is my card to legitimate 
you. Don’t forget pens and a 
bottle of ink ! Your 

“ Marcello.” 

There was nothing for it but to 
jump into the cart, tell Magnin, 
who had finished his sketch, to 
lock up my studio, and go bump- 
ing off to obey these commands. 
We drove to his lodgings in the 
Via del Governo Vecchio, and 
there I made a bundle of all that 
I could think of ; the landlady 
hindering me by a thousand 
questions about when the Signore 
would return. He had paid for 
the rooms in advance, so she had 
no need to be anxious about her 
rent. When I told her where 
he was, she shook her head, and 
talked a good deal about the bad 
air out there, and said, “ Poor 
Signorino ! ” in a melancholy 
way, as though he were already 
buried, and looked mournfully 
after us from the window when 
we drove away. She irritated 


l6 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


me, and made me feel supersti 
tious. At the corner of the Vi. 
del Tritone I jumped down am 
gave the man a franc out of pur 
sentimentality, and cried afte 
him, “ Greet the Signore ! ” bu 
he did not hear me, and joggec 
away stupidly while I was long 
ing to be with him. MarcelL 
was a cross to us sometimes, bu 
we loved him always. 

The eight days went by soone 
than I had thought they would 
and Thursday came, bright ant 
sunny, for my expedition. A 
one o’clock I descended into th< 
Piazza di Spagna, and made ; 
bargain with a man who had j 
well-fed horse, remembering hov 
dearly Marcello’s want of goot 
sense had cost me a week ago 
and we drove off at a good pac< 
to the Vigna Marziali, as I wa 
almost forgetting to say that i 
was called. My heart was beat 
ing, though I did not know whj 
I should feel so much emotion 
When we reached the iron gate 
the guardiano answered rny rin| 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 17 


directly, and I had no sooner set 
foot in the long flower-walk than 
I saw Marcello hastening to meet 
me. 

“ I knew you would come,” he 
said, drawing my arm within his, 
and so we walked toward the 
little gray house, which had a 
sort of portico and several bal- 
conies, and a sun-dial on its front. 
.There were grated windows 
down to the ground floor, and the 
iplace, to my relief, looked safe 
tand habitable. He told me that 
fthe man did not sleep there, but 
a n a little hut down toward the 
g 3 ampagna, and that he, Marcello, 
ocked himself in safely every 
(pight, which I was also relieved 
3:0 know. 

.( “ What do you get to eat ? ” 
jj;aid I. 

j. “ Oh, I have goat’s flesh, and 
^|lried beans and polenta, with 
,^i)ecorino cheese, and there is 
jjjlenty of black bread and sour 
J/ine,” he answered, smilingly. 
J You see, I am not starved.” 

I “ Do not overwork yourself. 


l8 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


moil vicnXy' I said ; “ you are 
worth more than your opera evei 
will be.” 

“ Do I look overworked ? ” he 
said, turning his face to me ir 
the broad, outdoor light. He 
seemed a little offended at m]» 
saying that about his opera, anc 
I was foolish to do it. 

I examined his face critically 
and he looked at me half defi 
antly. “ No, not yet,” I answerec 
rather unwillingly, for I could no 
say that he did ; but there was < 
restless, inward look in his eyes 
and an almost imperceptibh 
shadow lay 'around them. I 


seemed to me as though tin 


full temples had grown slightb 
hollow, and a sort of faint mis 
lay over his beauty, making i 


r 


seem strange and far off. W 


were standing before the dooi 
and he pushed it open, the gua? 
diano following us with slow 
loud-resounding steps. 

“ Here is my Paradise,” sail 
Marcello, and \ve entered th 
house, which was like all th 


d 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 19 


others of its kind. A hall, with 
stucco bas-reliefs, and a stairway 
adorned with antique fragments, 
gave access to the upper rooms. 
Marcello ran up the steps lightly, 
and I heard him lock a door 
somewhere above and draw out 
the key; then he came and met 
me on the landing. 

“ This,” he said, “ is my work- 
room,” and he threw open a low 
door. The key was in the lock, 
so this room could not be the one 
I heard him close. “Tell me I 
shall not write like an angel 
here ! ” he cried. I was so 
dazzled by the flood of bright 
sunshine after the dusk of the 
passage, that I blinked like an owl 
at first, and then I saw a large 
room, quite bare, except for a 
rough table and chair, the chair 
covered with manuscript music. 

“ You are looking for the furni- 
ture,” he said, laughing; “it is 
outside. Look here ! ” and he 
drew me to a rickety door of 
worm - eaten wood and coarse 
greenish glass, and flung it open 


20 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


on to a rusty iron balcony. He 
was right ; the furniture was out- 
side : that is to say, a divine view 
met my eyes. The Sabine Moun- 
tains, the Alban Hills, the broad 
Campagna, with its mediaeval 
towers and ruined aqueducts, and 
the open plain to the sea. All 
this glowing and yet calm in the 
sunlight. No wonder he could 
write there ! The balcony ran 
round the corner of the house, 
and to the right I looked down 
upon an alley of ilexes, ending in 
a grove of tall laurel trees — very 
old, apparently. There were bits 
of sculpture and some ancient 
sarcophagi standing gleaming 
among them, and even from so 
high I could hear a little stream 
of water pouring from an antique 
mask into a long, rough trough. 
I saw the brown guardiano dig- 
ging at his cabbages and onions, 
and I laughed to think that I 
could fancy him a murderer! 
He had a little bag of relics, 
which dangled to and fro over 
his sunburned breast, and he 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 21 


looked very innocent when he 
sat down upon an old column to 
eat a piece of black bread with 
an onion which he had just pulled 
out of the ground, slicing it with 
a knife not at all like a dagger. 
But I kept my thoughts to my- 
self, for Marcello would have 
laughed at them. We were 
standing together, looking down 
at the man as he drank from his 
hands at the running fountain, 
and Marcello now leaned down 
over the balcony, and called out 
a long “ Ohe ! ” The lazy guar- 
diano looked up, nodded, and 
then got up slowly from the stone 
where he had been half-kneeling 
to reach the jet of water. 

“We are going to dine,” Mar- 
cello explained. “ I have been 
waiting for you.” Presently we 
heard the man’s heavy tread 
upon the stairs, and he entered, 
bearing a strange meal in a 
basket. 

There came to light pecorino 
cheese made from ewe’s milk, 
black bread of the consistency of 


22 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


a stone, a great bowl of salad 
apparently composed of weeds, 
and a sausage which filled the 
room with a strong smell of 
garlic. Then he disappeared and 
came back with a dish full of 
ragged-looking goat’s flesh cooked 
together vvith a mass of smoking 
polenta, and I am not sure that 
there was not oil in it. 

I told you I lived well, and 
now you see ! ” said Marcello. 
It was a terrible meal, but I had 
to eat it, and was glad to have 
some rough, sour wine to help 
me, which tasted of earth and 
roots. When we had finished, I 
said, “ And your opera ! How 
are you getting on ? ” 

“Not a word about that!” he 
cried. “ You see how I have 
written 1 ” and he turned over a 
heap of manuscript ; “ but do 
not talk to me about it. I will 
not lose my ideas in words.” 
This was not like Marcello, who 
loved to discuss his work, and I 
looked at him astonished. 

“ Come,” he said, “ we will go 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 23 


down into the garden, and you 
shall tell me about the comrades. 
What are they doing ? Has 
Magnin found a model for his 
Clytemnestra ? ” 

I humored him, as I always 
did, and we sat upon a stone 
bench behind the house, looking 
toward the laurel grove, talking 
of the pictures and the students. 
I wanted to walk down the ilex 
alley, but he stopped me. 

“ If you are afraid of the damp, 
don’t go down there,” he said ; 
“ the place is like a vault. Let 
us stay here and be thankful for 
this heavenly view.” 

Well, let us stay here,” I 
answered, resigned as ever. He 
lit a cigar and offered me one in 
silence. If he did not care to talk, 
I could be still, too. From time 
to time he made some indifferent 
observation, and I answered it in 
the same tone. It almost seemed 
to me as though we, the old 
heart - comrades, had become 
strangers who had not known 
each other a week, or as though 


24 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


we had been so long apart that 
we had grown away from each 
other. There was something 
about him which escaped me. 
Yes, the few da3"s of solitude had 
indeed put years and a sort of 
shyness, or rather ceremony, 
between us ! It did not seem 
natural to me now to clap him 
on the back, and make the old, 
harmless jokes at him. He must 
have felt the constraint, too, for 
we were like children who had 
looked forward to a game, and 
did not know now what to play 
at. 

At six o’clock I left him. It 
was not like parting with Mar- 
cello. I felt rather as though 
I should find my old friend in 
Rome that evening, and here only 
left a shadowy likeness of him. 
He accompanied me to the gate, 
and pressed my hand, and for a 
moment the true Marcello looked 
out of his eyes ; but we called 
out no last words to each other 
as I drove away. I had only 
said, “ Let me know when you 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 25 


want me ; and he had said, 
Merci ! " and all the way back 
to Rome I felt a chill upon me, 
his hand had been so cold, and I 
thought and thought what could 
be the matter with him. 

That evening I spoke out my 
anxiety to Pierre Magnin, who 
shook his head and declared that 
malaria fever must be taking hold 
of him, and that people often 
began to show it by being a little 
odd. 

“ He must not stay there ! We 
must get him away as soon as 
possible," I cried. 

“We know Marcello, and that 
nothing can make him stir against 
his will," said Pierre. “ Let 
him alone, and he will get tired 
of his whim. It will not kill 
him to have a touch of malaria, 
and some evening he will turn up 
among us merry as ever." 

But he did not. I worked hard 
at my picture and finished it, but 
for a few touches, and he had not 
yet appeared. Perhaps it was the 
extreme application, perhaps the 


26 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


sitting out in that damp place, 
for I insist upon tracing it to 
something more material than 
emotion. Well, whatever it was, 
I fell ill ; more ill than I had 
even been in my life. It was 
almost twilight when it overtook 
me, and I remember it distinctly, 
though I forget what happened 
afterward, of, rather, I never 
knew, for I was found by Magnin 
quite unconscious, and he has 
told me that I remained so for 
some time, and then became 
delirious, and talked of nothing 
but Marcello. I have told you 
that it was very nearly twilight ; 
but just at the moment when the 
sun is gone the colors show in 
their true value. Artists know 
this, and I was putting last 
touches here and there to my 
picture, and especially to my 
head of Mucius Scaevola, or, 
rather, Marcello. 

The rest of the picture came 
out well enough ; but that head, 
which should have been the prin- 
cipal one, seemed faded and sunk 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 27 


in. The face appeared to grow 
paler and paler, and to recede 
from me ; a strange veil spread 
over it, and the eyes seemed to 
close. I am not easily frightened, 
and I know what tricks some 
peculiar methods of color will 
play by certain lights, for the 
moment I spoke of had gone, 
and the twilight grayness had 
set in ; so I stepped back to look 
well at it. Just then the lips, 
which had become almost white, 
opened a little, and sighed ! An 
illusion, of course. I must have 
been very ill and quite delirious 
already, for to my imagination it 
was a real sigh, or, rather, a sort 
of exhausted gasp. Then it was 
that I fainted, I suppose, and 
when I came to myself I was in 
my bed, with Magnin and Mon- 
sieur Sutton standing by me, and 
a Soeur de Charity moving softly 
about among medicine bottles, 
and speaking in whispers. I 
stretched out my hands, and they 
were thin and yellow, with long, 
pale nails; and I heard Magnin’s 


28 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


voice, which sounded very far 
away, say, Dieu merci ! ” And 
now Monsieur Sutton will tell 
you what I did not know until 
long afterward. 




II. 

ROBERT SUTTON’S ACCOUNT OF 
WHAT HAPPENED AT THE VIGNA 
MARZIALI. 

AM attached to Detaille, 
and was very glad to be 
of use to him, but I 
never fully shared his 
admiration for Marcello 
Souvestre, though I ap- 
preciated his good points. He 
was certainly very promising — I 
must say that. But he was an 
odd, flighty sort of fellow, not of 
the kind which we English care 
to take the trouble to understand. 
It is my business to write stories, 
but not having need of such 
characters I have never particu- 
larly studied them. As I say, I 
29 



30 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 

was glad to be of use to Detaille, 
who is a thorough good fellow, 
and I willingly gave up my work 
to go and sit by his bedside. 
Magnin knew that I was a friend 
of his, and very properly came to 
me when he found that Detaille’s 
illness was a serious one and 
likely to last for a long time. I 
found him perfectly delirious, and 
raving about Marcello. 

“ Tell me what the motif \s ! I 
know it is a Marche Fun'^ebre ! ” 
And here he would sing a peculiar 
melody, which, as I have a knack 
at music, I noted down, it being 
like nothing I had heard before, t 
The Sister of Charity looked at 
me with severe eyes ; but how 
could she know that all is grist 
for our mill, and that observation 
becomes with us a mechanical 
habit? Poor Detaille kept re- i 
peating this curious melody over 
and over, and then would stop 
and seem to be looking at his 
picture, crying that it was fading 
away. 

“Marcello! Marcello! You 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 3I 


are fading, too ! Let me come to 
you ! He was as weak as a 
baby, and could not have moved 
from his bed unless in the strength 
of delirium. 

“ I cannot come ! ” he went on ; 
‘‘ they have tied me down.’' And 
here he made as though he were 
trying to gnaw through a rope at 
his wrists, and then burst into 
tears. “ Will no one go for me 
and bring me a word from you ? 
Ah, if I could know that you are 
alive ! ” 

Magnin looked at me. I knew 
what he was thinking. He would 
not leave his comrade, but I must 
go. I don’t mind acknowledging 
that 1 did not undertake this 
unwillingly. To sit by Detaille’s 
bedside and listen to his ravings 
enervated me, and what Magnin 
wanted struck me as troublesome 
but not uninteresting to one of 
my craft, so I agreed to go. I 
had heard all about Marcello’s 
strange seclusion from Magnin 
and Detaille himself, who 
lamented over it openly, in his 


32 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


simple way, at supper at the 
Academy, where I was a frequent 
guest. 

I knew that it would be useless 
to ring at the gate of the Vigna 
Marziali. Not only should I not 
be admitted, but I should arouse 
Marcello’s anger and suspicion, for 
I did not for a moment believe 
that he was not alive, though I 
thought it very possible that he 
was becoming a little crazy, as 
his countrymen are so easily put 
off their balance. Now, odd 
people are oddest late ‘ in the 
day and at evening time. Their 
nerves lose the power of resist- 
ance then, and the real man gets 
the better of them. So I deter- 
mined to try to discover some- 
thing at night, reflecting also that 
I should be safer from detection 
then. I knew his liking for wan- 
dering about when he ought to 
be in his bed, and I did not 
doubt that I should get a glimpse 
of him, and that was really all I 
needed. 

My first step was to take a 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 33 


long walk out of the Porta San 
Giovanni, and tliis I did in the 
early morning, tramping along 
steadily until I came to an iron 
gate on the right of the road, 
with “Vigna Marziali” over it; 
and then I walked straight on, 
never stopping until I had reached 
a little bushy lane running down 
toward the Campagna to the 
right. It was pebbly, and quite 
shut in by luxuriant ivy and elder 
bushes, and it bore deep traces 
of the last heavy rains. These 
had evidently been effaced by no 
footprints, so I concluded that it 
was little used. Down this path 
I made my way cautiously, look- 
ing behind and before me, from 
a habit contracted in my lonely 
wanderings in the Abruzzi. I had 
a capital revolver with me — an 
old friend — and I feared no man ; 
but I began to feel a dramatic 
interest in my undertaking, and 
determined that it should not be 
crossed by any disagreeable sur- 
prises. The lane led me further 
down the plain than I had 


34 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


reckoned upon, for the bushy 
edge shut out the view ; and 
when I had got to the bottom 
and faced round, the Vigna Mar- 
ziali was lying quite far to my left. 
I saw at a glance that behind 
the gray casino an alley of ilexes 
ended in a laurel grove ; then 
there were plantations of kitchen 
stuff, with a sort of thatched 
cabin in their midst, probably 
that of the gardener. I looked 
about for a kennel, but saw none, 
so there was no watch-dog. At the 
end of this primitive kitchen gar- 
den was a broad patch of grass, 
bounded by a fence, which I 
could take at a spring. Now I 
knew my way, but I could not 
resist tracing it out a little further. 
It was well that I did so, for I 
found just within the fence a 
sunken stream, rather full at the 
time, in consequence of the rains, 
too deep to wade and too broad 
to jump. It struck me that it 
would be easy enough to take a 
board from the fence and lay it 
over for a bridge. I measured 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 35 


the breadth with my eye, and 
decided that the board would 
span it ; then I went back as I 
had come, and returned to find 
Detaille still raving. 

As he could understand noth- 
ing, it seemed to me rather a 
fool’s errand to go off in search 
of comfort for him ; but a con- 
scious moment might come, and, 
moreover, I began to be interested 
in my undertaking ; and so I 
agreed with Magnin that I should 
go and take some food and rest, 
and return to the Vigna that 
night. I told my landlady that 
I was going into the country and 
should return the next day, and I 
went to Nazarri’s and laid in a 
stock of sandwiches, and filled my 
flask with something they called 
sherry, for, though I was no great 
wine-drinker, I feared the night 
chill. 

It was about seven o’olock 
when I started, and 1 retraced 
my morning’s steps exactly. As 
I reached the lane, it occurred to 
me that it was still too light for 


36 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


me to pass unobserved over the 
stream, and I made a place for 
myself under the hedge and lay j 
down, quite screened by the thick j 
curtain of tangled overhanging 
ivy. 1 

I must have been out of train- i 
ing, and tired by the morning’s 
walk, for I fell asleep. When I 
awoke it was night ; the stars 
were shining, a dank mist made 
its way down my throat, and I 
felt stiff and cold. I took a pull 
at my flask, finding it nasty stuff, 
but it warmed me. Then I rang 
my repeater, which struck a 
quarter to eleven, got up, and 
shook myself free of the leaves 
and brambles, and went on down 
the lane. When I got to the 
fence I sat down and thought 
the thing over. What did I ex- 
pect to discover ? What 7vas 
there to discover? Nothing! 
Nothing but that Marcello was 
alive ; and that was no discovery 
at all, for I felt sure of it. I was 
a fool, and had let myself be 
allured by the mere stage non- 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMFAGNA. 37 


sense and mystery of the business, 
and a mouse would creep out 
of this mountain of precautions ! 
Well, at least, I could turn it to 
account by describing my own 
absurd behavior in some story 
yet to be written, and, as it was 
not enough for a chapter, I would 
add to it by further experience. 
“Come along!” I said to my- 
self. “ You’re an ass, but it may 
prove instructive.” I raised the 
top board from the fence noise- 
lessly. Thbre was a stile just 
there, and the boards were easily 
moved. I laid down my bridge 
with some difficulty, and stepped 
carefully across, and made my 
way to the laurel grove as quickly 
and noiselessly as possible. 

There all was thick darkness, 
and my eyes only grew slowly 
accustomed to it. After all, there 
was not much to see ; some stone 
seats in a semi-circle, and some 
fragments of columns set upright 
with antique busts upon them. 
Then a little to the right a sort 
of arch, with apparently some 


38 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


steps descending into the ground, 
probably the entrance to some 
discovered branch of a catacomb. 
In the midst of the inclosure, 
not a very large one, stood a stone 
table, deeply fixed in the earth. 
No one was there ; of that I felt 
certain, and I sat down, having 
now got used to the gloom, and 
fell to eating my sandwiches, for I 
was desperately hungry. 

Now that I had come so far, 
was nothing to take place to 
repay me for my trouble ? It 
suddenly struck me that it was 
absurd to expect Marcello to 
come out to meet me and per- 
form any mad antics he might 
be meditating there before my 
eyes for my especial satisfaction. 
Why I had supposed that some- 
thing would take place in the 
grove I do not know, except that 
this seemed a fit place for it. I 
would go and watch the house, 
and if I saw a light anywhere, I 
might be sure that he was within. 
Any fool might have thought of 
that, but a novelist lays the scene 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMFAGNA. 39 


of his drama and expects his 
characters to slide about in the 
grooves like puppets. It is only 
when mine surprise me that I 
feel they are alive. When I 
reached the end of the ilex alley, 

I saw the house before me. 
There were more cabbages and 
onions after I had left the trees, 
and I saw that in this open space 
I could easily be perceived by 
any one standing on the balcony 
above. As I drew back again 
under the ilexes, a window above, 
not the one on the balcony, was 
suddenly lighted up ; but the 
light did not remain long, and 
presently a gleam shone through 
the glass oval over the door 
below. 

I had just time to spring be- 
hind the thickest trunk near me, 
when the door opened. I took 
advantage of its creaking to creep 
up the slanting tree like a cat, 
and lie out upon a projecting 
branch. 

As I expected, Marcello came 
out. He was very pale and 


40 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


moved mechanically, like a sleep- 
walker. I was shocked to see 
how hollow his face had become 
as he held the candle still lighted 
in his hand, and it cast deep 
shadows o.n his sunken cheeks 
and fixed eyes, which burned 
wildly and seemed to see nothing. 
His lips were quite white, and so 
drawn that I could see his gleam- 
ing teeth. Then the candle fell 
from his hand, and he came 
slowly and with a curiously 
regular step on into the darkness 
of the ilexes, I watching him 
from above. But I scarcely think 
he would have noticed me, had I 
been standing in his path. When 
he had passed I let myself down 
and followed him. I had taken 
off my shoes, and my tread was 
absolutely noiseless ; moreover, I 
felt sure he would not turn round. 

On he went, with the same 
mechanical step, until he reached 
the grove. There I knelt behind 
an old sarcophagus at the en- 
trance, and waited. What would 
he do? He stood perfectly still, 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 41 


not looking about him, but as 
though the clockwork within him 
had suddenly stopped. I felt 
that he was becoming psychologi- 
cally interesting, after all. Sud- 
denly he threw up his arms as 
men do when they are mortally 
wounded on the battle-field, and 
I expected to see him fall at full 
length. Instead of this he, made 
a step forward. 

I looked in the same direction, 
and saw a woman, who must 
have concealed herself there 
while I was waiting before the 
house, come from out of the 
gloom, and as she slowly ap- 
proached and laid her head upon 
his shoulder, the outstretched 
arms clasped themselves closely 
around her, so that her face was 
hidden upon his neck. 

So this was the whole matter, 
and I had been sent off on a wild- 
goose chase to spy out a common 
love affair! His opera and his 
seclusion for the sake of work, 
his tyrannical refusal to see De- 
taille unless he sent for him — all 


42 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


this was but a mask to a vulgar 
intrigue which, for reasons best 
known to himself, could not be 
indulged in in the city. I was 
thoroughly angry ! If Marcello 
passed his time mooning about 
in that damp hole all night, 
no wonder that he looked so 
wretchedly ill and seemed half 
mad ! I knew very well that 
Marcello was no saint. Why 
should he be ? But I had not 
taken him fora fool ! He had had 
plenty of romantic episodes, and 
as he was discreet without being 
uselessly mysterious, no one had 
ever unduly pryed into them, nor 
should we have done so now. I 
said to myself that that mixture 
of French and Italian blood was 
at the bottom of it ; French 
flimsiness and light - headedness 
and Italian love of cunning ! I 
looked back upon all the details 
of my mysterious expedition. I 
suppose at the root of my anger 
lay a certain dramatic disappoint- 
ment at not finding him lying 
murdered, and I despised myself 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 43 


for all the trouble I had taken to 
this ridiculous end : just to see 
him holding a woman in his arms. 
I could not see her face, and her 
figure was enveloped from head 
to foot in something long and 
dark ; but I could make out that 
she was tall and slender, and that 
a pair of white hands gleamed 
from her drapery. As I was 
looking intently, for all my in- 
dignation, the couple moved on, 
and still clinging to one another 
descended the' steps. So even 
the solitude of the lonely laurel 
grove could not satisfy Marcello’s 
insane love of secrecy ! I kept 
still awhile ; then I stole to 
where they had disappeared, and 
listened ; but all was silent, and 
I cautiously struck a match and 
peered down. I could see the 
steps for a short distance below 
me, and then the darkness 
seemed to rise and swallow 
them. It must be a catacomb, 
as I had imagined, or an old 
Roman bath, perhaps, which 
Marcello had made comfortable 


44 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


enough, no doubt, and as likely 
as not they were having a nice 
little cold supper there. My 
empty stomach told me that I 
could have forgiven him even 
then, could I have shared it. I 
was in truth frightfully hungry 
as well as angry, and sat down 
on one of the stone benches to 
finish my sandwiches. 

The thought of waiting to see 
this love-sick pair return to 
upper earth never for a moment 
occurred to me. I had found 
out the whole thing, and a great 
humbug it was ! Now I wanted 
to get back to Rome before my 
temper had cooled, and to tell 
Magnin on what a fool’s errand 
he had sent me. If he liked to 
quarrel with me, all the better! 

All the way home I composed 
cutting French speeches, but 
they suddenly cooled and petri- 
fied like a gust of lava from a 
volcano when I discovered that 
the gate was closed. I had 
never thought of getting a pass, 
and Magnin ought to have 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 45 


warned me. Another grievance 
against the fellow ! I enjoyed 
my resentment, and it kept me 
warm as I patrolled up and 
down. There are houses, and 
even small eating-shops outside 
the gate, but no light was visible, 
and I did not care to attract 
attention by pounding at the 
doors in the middle of the night ; 
so I crept behind a bit of wall. 
I was getting used to hiding by 
this time, and made myself as 
comfortable as I could with my 
ulster, took another pull at my 
flask, and waited. At last the 
gate was opened and I slipped 
through, trying not to look as 
though I had been out all night 
like a bandit. The guard looked 
at me narrowly, evidently wonder- 
ing at my lack of luggage. Had 
I had a knapsack, I might have 
been taken for some innocently 
mad English tourist indulging in 
the mistaken pleasure of trudging 
in from Frascati or Albano ; but 
a man in an ulster, with his 
hands in his pockets, sauntering 


46 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


in at the gate of the city at break 
of day as though returning from 
a stroll, naturally puzzled the 
officials, who looked after me 
and shrugged their shoulders. 

Luckily, I found an early cab 
in the Piazza of the Lateran, for 
I was dead-beat, and was soon at 
my lodgings in the Via della 
Croce, where my landlady let me 
in very speedily. Then at last I 
had the comfort of throwing off 
my clothes, all damp with the 
night dew, and turning in. My 
wrath had cooled to a certain 
point, and I did not fear to lower 
its temperature too greatly by 
yielding to an overwhelming 
desire for sleep. An hour or two 
could make no great difference to 
Magnin — let him fancy me still 
hanging about the Vigna Mar- 
ziali ! Sleep I must have, no 
matter what he thought. 

I slept long, and was awakened 
at last by my landlady, Sora 
Nanna, standing over me, and 
saying, “There is a Signore who 
wants you.” 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 47 


“ It is I, Magnin ! ” said a 
voice behind her. “ I could not 
wait for you to come ! ” He 
looked haggard with anxiety and 
watching. 

“ Detaille is raving still,” he 
went on, “ only worse ' than 
before. Speak, for Heaven’s 
sake ! Why don’t you tell me 
something?”' And he shook me 
by the arm as though he thought 
I was still asleep. 

Have you nothing to say ? 
You must have seen something! 
Did you see Marcello ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, I saw him ! ” 

Well ? ” 

“ Well, he was very comfort- 
able — quite alive. He , had a 
woman’s arms around him.” 

I heard my door violently 
slammed to a ferocious “ Sacr^ 
gamin ! ” and then steps spring- 
ing down the stairs. I felt 
perfectly happy at having made 
such an impression, and turned 
and resumed my broken sleep 
with almost a kindly feeling 
toward Magnin, who was at 


48 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


that moment probably tearing 
up the Spanish Scalinata two 
steps at a time, and making 
himself horribly hot. It could 
not help Detaille, poor fellow ! 
He could not understand my 
news. When I had slept long 
enough I got up, refreshed my- 
self with a bath and something to 
eat, and went off to see Detaille. 
It was not his fault that I had 
been made a fool of, so I felt 
sorry for him. 

I found him raving just as I 
had left him the day before, only 
worse, as Magnin said. He 
persisted in continually crying, 
“ Marcello, take care ! no one 
can save you ! ” in hoarse, weak 
tones, but with the regularity of 
a knell, keeping up a peculiar 
movement with his feet, as 
though he were weary with 
a long road, but must press 
forward to his goal. Then he 
would stop and break into child- 
ish sobs. 

“ My feet are so sore,” he 
murmured, piteously, “ and I am 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 49 


SO tired ! But I will come ! 
They are following me, but I am 
strong!” Then a violent strug- 
gle with his invisible pursuers, 
in which he would break off into 
that singing of his, alternating 
with the warning cry. The 
singing voice was quite another 
from the speaking one. He 
went on and on repeating the 
singular air which he had him- 
self called a Funeral March, and 
which had become intensely dis- 
agreeable to me. If it was one, 
indeed, it surely was intended 
for no Christian burial. As he 
sang, the tears kept trickling 
down his cheeks, and Magnin sat 
wiping them away as tenderly as 
a woman. Between his song he 
would clasp his hands, feebly 
enough, for he was very weak 
when the delirium did not make 
him violent, and cry, in heart- 
rending-tones, “Marcello, I shall 
never see you again 1 Why did 
you leave us ? ” At last, when 
he stopped for a moment, Magnin 
left his side, beckoning the Sister 


50 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


to take it, and drew me into the 
other room, closing the door 
behind him. 

“ Now tell me exactly how 
you saw Marcello,” said he ; so 
I related my whole absurd ex- 
perience — forgetting, however, 
my personal irritation, for he 
looked too wretched and worn 
for anybody to be angry with 
him. He made me repeat 
several times my description of 
Marcello’s face and manner as 
he had come out of the house. 
That seemed to make more im- 
pression upon him than the love- 
business. 

“ Sick people have strange in- 
tuitions,” he said, gravely; “and 
I persist in thinking that 
Marcello is very ill and in 
danger. Tenez And here he 
broke off, went to the door, and 
called “ Afh: sceur ! under his 
breath. She understood, and 
after having drawn the bed- 
clothes straight, and once more 
dried the trickling tears, she 
came noiselessly to where we 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 5 I 


stood, the wet handkerchief still 
in her hand. She was a singu- 
larly tall and strong-looking 
woman, with piercing black eyes 
and a self - controlled manner. 
Strange to say, she bore the 
adopted name of Claudius, instead 
of a more feminine one. 

“ Ma soeur, ” said Magnin, “ at 
what o’clock was it that he 
sprang out of bed and we had to 
hold him for so long?” 

Half-past eleven and a few 
minutes,” she answered, promptly. 
Then he turned to me. 

“ At what time did Marcello 
come out into the garden ? ” 
“Well, it might have been 
half-past eleven,” I answered, un- 
willingly. “ I should say that 
three quarters of an hour might 
possibly have passed since I rang 
my repeater. Mind you, I wont 
swear it ! ” -I hate to have 
people try to prove mysterious 
coincidences, and this was just 
what* they were attempting. 

“Are you sure of the hour, ma 
sceiir?" I asked, a little tartly. 


52 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


She loojced at me calmly with her 
great, black eyes, and said : 

“ I heard the Trinita de’ Monti 
strike the half-hour just before it 
happened.” 

“ Be so good as to tell Mon- 
sieur Sutton exactly what took 
place,” said Magnin. 

“ One moment. Monsieur ” ; 
and she went swiftly and softly 
to Detaille, raised him on her 
strong arm, and held a glass to 
his lips, from which he drank 
mechanically. Then she came 
and stood where she could watch 
him through the open door. 

“ He hears nothing,” she said, 
as she hung the handkerchief 
to dry over a chair ; and then she 
went on. “ It was half-past 
eleven, and my patient had been 
very uneasy — that is to say, more 
so even than before. It might 
have been four or five minutes 
after the clock had finished 
striking that he became suddenly 
quite still, and then bega^i to 
tremble all over, so that the bed 
shook with him.” She spoke ad- 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 53 


mirable English, as many of the 
Sisters do, so I need not translate, 
but will give her own words. 

“ He went on trembling until 
I thought he was going to have 
a fit, and told Monsieur Magnin 
to be ready to go for the doctor, 
when just then the trembling 
stopped; he became perfectly 
stiff, his hair stood up upon his 
head, and his eyes seemed 
coming out of their sockets, 
though he could see nothing, 
for I passed the candle before 
them. All at once he sprang 
out of his bed and rushed to the 
door. I did not know he was 
so strong. Before he got there 
I had him in my arms, for he has 
become very light, and I carried 
him back to bed again, though 
he was struggling, like a child. 
Monsieur Magnin came in from 
the next room just as he was 
trying to get up again, and we 
held him down until it was 
past, but he screamed Monsieur 
Souvestre’s name for a long time 
after that. Afterward he was 


54 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


very cold and exhausted, of 
course, and I gave him some 
beef-tea, though it was not the 
hour for it.” 

think you had better tell 
the Sister all about it,” said 
Magnin turning to me. “ It is 
best that the nurse should know 
everything.” 

“ Very well,” said I ; “ though 
I do not think it’s much in her 
line.” She answered me her- 
self : “ Everything which con- 
cerns our patients is our business. 
Nothing shocks us.” Thereupon 
she sat down and thrust her 
hands into her long sleeves, pre- 
pared to listen. I repeated the 
whole affair as I had done to 
Magnin. She never took her 
brilliant eyes from off my face, 
and listened as coolly as though 
she had been a doctor hearing an 
account of a difficult case, though 
to me it seemed almost sacrilege 
to be describing the behavior of 
a love-stricken youth to a Sister 
of Charity. 

“ What do you say to that, ma 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 55 


soeur f asked Magnin, when I 
had done. 

“ I say nothing, monsieur. It 
is sufficient that I know it and 
she withdrew her hands from her 
sleeves, took up the handkerchief, 
which was dry by this time, and 
returned quietly to her place at 
the bedside. 

I wonder if I have shocked 
her, after all ? ” I said to Magnin. 

“Oh, no,’' he answered. 
“ They see many things, and 
2i soeitr is as abstract as a con- 
fessor; they do not allow them- 
selves any personal feelings. 
I have seen Soeur Claudius listen 
perfectly unmoved to the most 
abominable ravings, only crossing 
herself beneath her cape at the 
most hideous blasphemies. It 
was last summer when poor 
Justin Revol died. You were 
not here.” Magnin put his hand 
\o his forehead. 

“You are looking ill yourself,” 
I said. “ Go and try to sleep, 
and I will stay.” 

“ Very well,” he answered ; 


56' A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


“ but I cannot rest unless you 
promise to remember everything 
he says, that I may hear it when 
I wake ; and he threw himself 
down upon the hard sofa like a 
sack, and was asleep in a 
moment ; and I, who had felt so 
angry with him but a few hours 
ago, put a cushion under his 
head and made him comfortable. 

I sat down in the next room 
and listened to Detaille’s mo- 
notonous ravings, while Soeur 
Claudius read in her book of 
prayers. It was getting dusk, 
and several of the academicians 
stole in and stood over the sick 
man and shook their heads. 
They looked around for Magnin, 
but I pointed to the other room 
with my finger on my lips, and 
they nodded and went away on 
tip-toe. 

It required no effort of memory 
to repeat Detaille’s words to 
Magnin when he woke, for they 
were always the same. We had 
another Sister that night, and 
as Soeur Claudius was not to 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 57 


return till the next day at mid- 
day, I offered to share the watch 
with Magnin who was getting 
very nervous and exhausted, and 
who seemed to think that some 
such attack might be expected as 
had occurred the night before. 
The new Sister was a gentle, 
delicate - looking little woman, 
with tears in her soft brown eyes 
as she bent over the sick man, 
and crossed herself from time to 
time, grasping the crucifix which 
hung from the beads at her 
waist. Nevertheless she was 
calm and useful, and as punctual 
as Soeur Claudius herself in 
giving the medicines. 

The doctor had come in the 
evening, and prescribed a change 
in these. He would not say 
what he thought of his patient, 
but only declared that it was 
necessary to wait for a crisis. 
Magnin sent for some supper, 
and we sat over it together in 
silence, neither of us hungry. 
He kept looking at his watch. 

“ If the same thing happens 


58 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


to-night, he will die ! ” said he, 
and laid his head on his arms. 

“ He will die in a most foolish 
cause, then,’' I said, angrily, for 
I thought he was going to cry, 
as those Frenchmen have a way 
of doing, and I wanted to irritate 
him by way of a tonic ; so I went 
on : 

“ It would be dying for a 
vaurien who is making an ass of 
himself in a ridiculous business, 
which will be over in a week ! 
Souvestre may get as much fever 
as he likes ! only don’t ask me to 
come and nurse him.” 

“ It is not the fever,” said he, 
slowly, “ it is a horrible nameless 
dread that I have ; I suppose it is 
listening to Detaille that makes 
me nervous. Hark ! ” he added, 
“ it strikes eleven. We must 
watch ! ” 

‘‘ If you really expect another 
attack, you had better warn the 
Sister,” I said ; so he told her in 
a few words what might happen. 

“Very well, monsieur,” she 
answered, and sat down quietly 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 59 


near the bed, Magnin at the 
pillow and I near him. No sound 
was to be heard but Detaille’s 
ceaseless lament. 

And now, before I tell you 
more, I must stop to entreat 
you to believe m^. It will be 
almost impossible for you to do 
so, I know, for I have laughed 
myself at such tales, and no as- 
surances would have made me 
credit them. But I, Robert 
Sutton, swear that this thing 
happened. More I cannot do. 
It is the truth. 

We had been watching Detaille 
intently. He was lying with 
closed eyes, and had been very 
restless. Suddenly be became 
quite still, and then began 
to tremble, exactly as Sceur 
Claudius had described. It 
was a curious, uniform trem- 
bling, apparently in every fiber, 
and his iron bedstead shook as 
though strong hands were at its 
head and foot. Then came the 
absolute rigidity she had also 
described, and I do not exagger- 


6o A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


ate when I say that not only 
did his short-cropped hair seem 
to stand erect, but that it literally 
did so. A lamp cast the shadow 
of his profile against the wall to 
the left of his bed, and as I 
looked at the* immovable outline, 
which seemed painted on the 
wall, I saw the hair slowly rise 
until the line where it joined the 
forehead was quite a different 
one — abrupt, instead of a smooth 
sweep. His eyes opened wide 
and were frightfully fixed, then 
as frightfully strained, but they 
certainly did not see us. 

We waited breathlessly for 
what might follow. The little 
Sister was standing close to him, 
her lips pressed together and a 
little pale, but ver}^ calm. ‘‘ Do 
not be frightened, ma sceiir'' 
whispered Magnin ; and she 
answ'ered in a business - like 
tone, “ No, monsieur,” and 
drew still nearer to her patient, 
and took his hands, which were 
stiff as those of a corpse, be- 
tween her own to warm them. 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 6l 


I laid mine upon his heart ; it 
was beating so imperceptibly that 
I almost thought it had stopped, 
and as I leaned my face to his 
lips I could feel no breath issue 
from them. It seemed as though 
the rigor would last forever. 

Suddenly, without any tran- 
sition, he hurled himself with 
enormous force, and literally at 
one bound, almost into the 
’ middle of the room, scattering 
us aside like leaves in the wind. 
I was upon him in a moment, 
grappling with him with all my 
strength to prevent him from 
reaching the door. Magnin had 
been thrown backward against 
the table, and I heard the 
medicine bottles crash with his 
fall. He had flung back his 
I hand to save himself, an€ rushed 
to help me, with the blood 
! dropping from a cut in his wrist. 
iThe little Sister sprang to us. 
Detaille had thrown her vio- 
lently back upon her knees, 
land now, with a nurse’s in- 
stinct, she tried to throw a 


62 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


shawl over his bare breast. We 
four must have made a strange 
group ! 

Four? We were five ! Marcello 
Souvestre stood before us, just 
within the door ! We all saw 
him, fpr he was there. His 
bloodless face was turned to- 
ward us unmoved ; his hands 

hung by his side as white as 
his face ; only his eyes had life 
in them ; they were fixed on 
Detaille. 

“ Thank God, you have come 
at last ! ” I cried. “ Don’t stand 
there like a fool! Help us, 

can’t you ? ” But he never 
moved. I was furiously angry, 
and, leaving my hold, sprang 
upon him to drag him forward. 
My outstretched hands struck 
hard against the door, and I felt 
a thing like a spider’s web 
envelop me. It seemed to 

draw itself over my mouth and 
eyes, and to blind and choke me, 
and then to flutter and tear and:j 
float from me. I 

Marcello was gone ! 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 63 


Detaille had slipped from Mag- 
nin’s hold and lay in a heap 
upon the floor, as though his 
limbs were broken. The Sister 
was trembling violently as she 
knelt over him and tried to raise 
his head. We gazed at one 
another, stooped and lifted him 
in our arms, and carried him 
back to his bed, while Soeur 
Marie quietly collected the broken 
phials. 

“You saw it, ma sceiirf' I 
heard Magnin whisper, hoarsely. 

“Yes, monsieur!” she only 
answered, in a trembling voice, 
holding on to her crucifix. Then 
she said in a professional tone : 

“ Will monsieur let me bind 
up his wrist } ” And though her 
fingers trembled and his hand 
was shaking, the bandage was 
>; an irreproachable one. 

) Magnin went into the next 
i room, and I heard him throw 
:ii himself heavily into a chair, 
dl Detaille seemed to be sleeping. 

I His breath came regularly ; his 
eyes were closed with a look of 


64 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 

peace about the lids, his hands 
lying in a natural way upon the 
quilt. He had not moved since 
we laid him there. I went softly 
to where Magnin was sitting in 
the dark. He did not move, 
but only said : “ Marcello is 

dead ! ” 

“ He is either dead or dying,” 

I answered, “ and we must go 
to him.” 

“ Yes,”' Magnin whispered, 

“ we must go to him, but we 
shall not reach him.” 

“ We will go as soon as it 
is light,” I said, and then we .A 
were still again. 

When the morning came at ' 
last, he went and found a com- 
rade to take his place, and only : 
said to Soeur Marie, “ It is not 
necessary to speak of this night,”J 
and at her quiet, “You are right,? 
monsieur,” we felt that we could ' 
trust her. Detaille was still sleep- • 
ing. Was this the crisis the ‘ 
doctor had expected ? Perhaps ; 
but surely not in such fearful 
form. I insisted upon my com- 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMRAONA. 65 


panion having some breakfast 
before we started, and I break- 
fasted myself, but I cannot say 
I tasted what passed between 
my lips. 

We engaged a closed carriage, 
for we did not know what we 
might bring home with uS, though 
neither of us spoke out his 
thoughts. It was early morning 
still when we reached the Vigna 
Marziali, and we had not ex- 
changed a word all the way. I 
rang at the bell, while the coach- 
man looked on curiously. It was 
answered promptly by the giiar- 
diano of whom Detaille has 
already told you. 

“ Where is the Signore ? ” I 
asked through the gate. 

“ Chi lo sa f ” he answered. 
“ He is here, of course ; he has 
not left the Vigna. Shall I call 
him?” • 

“ Call him ” I knew that no 
mortal voice could reach Marcello 
now, but I tried to fancy he was 
still alive. 

“ No,” I said. 


“ Let us in. 


66 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


We want to surprise him ; he 
will be pleased.” 

The man hesitated but he 
finally opened the gate, and we 
entered, leaving the carriage to 
wait outside. We went straight 
to the house ; the door at the 
back was wide open. There had 
been a gale in the night, and it 
had torn some leaves and bits 
of twigs from the trees and 
blown them into the entrance 
hall. They lay scattered across 
the threshold, and were evidence 
that the door had remained open 
ever since they had fallen. The 
guardiano left us, probably to 
escape Marcello’s anger at having 
let us in, and we went up the 
stairs unhindered, Magnin fore- 
most, for he knew the house 
better than I, from Detaille’s 
description. He had told him 
about the corner room with the 
balcony, and we pretended that 
Marcello might be there, ab- 
sorbed betimes in his work, but 
we did not call him. 

He was not there. His papers 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 67 


were strewn over the table as 
though he had been writing, but 
the inkstand was dry and full of 
dust — he could not have used 
it for days. We went silently 
into the other chambers. Per- 
haps he was still asleep. But, 
no! We found his bed un- 
touched, so he could not have 
lain in it that night. The rooms 
were all unlocked but one, and 
this closed door made our hearts 
beat. Marcello could scarcely 
be there, however, for there was 
no key in the lock ; I saw the 
daylight shining through the 
key-hole. We called his name, 
but there came no answer. We 
knocked loudly ; still no sign 
from within ; so I put my 
shoulder to the door, which was 
old and cracked in several places, 
and succeeded in bursting it 
open. 

Nothing was there but a sculp- 
tor’s modeling-stand, with some- 
thing upon it covered with a 
white cloth, and the modeling- 
tools on the floor. At the sight 


68 A MYSTERY OT THE CAMPAGNA. 


of the cloth, still damp, we drew 
a deep breath. It could not 
have hung there for many hours, 
certainly not for twenty- four. 
We did not raise it. “ He would 
be vexed,” said Magnin, and I 
nodded, for it is accounted almost 
a crime in the artist’s world to 
unveil a sculptor’s work behind 
his back. We expressed no sur- 
prise at the fact of his modeling; 
a ban seemed to lie upon our 
tongues. The cloth hung tightly 
to the object beneath it, and 
showed us the outline of a 
woman’s head and rounded bust, 
and so veiled we left her. There 
was a little winding stair lead- 
ing out of the passage, and we 
climbed it, to find ourselves in 
a sort of belvedere, commanding 
a superb view. It was a small, 
open terrace, on the roof of the 
house, and we saw at a glance 
that no one was there. 

We had now been all over 
the casino, which was small and 
simply built, being evidently in- 
tended only for short summer 


A MYSTERY OE THE CAMPAGNA. 69 

use. As vve stood leaning over 
the balustrade, we could look 
down into the garden. No one 
was there but the guardiano^ 
lying among his cabbages with 
his arms behind his head, half 
asleep. The laurel grove had 
been in my mind from the begin- 
ning, only it had seemed more 
natural to go to the house first. 
Now we descended the stairs 
silently and directed our steps 
thither. 

As we approached it, the guar- 
diano came toward us, lazily. 

“ Have you seen the Signore?” 
he asked, and his stupidly placid 
face showed me that he, at least, 
had no hand in his disappear- 
ance. 

No, not yet,” I answered, 
but we shall come across him 
somewhere, no doubt. Perhaps 
he has gone to take a walk, and 
we will wait for him. What is 
this?” I went on, trying to seem 
careless. We were standing now 
by the little arch of which you 
know. 


7o A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


“This?” said he; “I have 
never been down there, but they 
say it is something old. Do the 
Signori want to see it ? I will 
fetch a lantern.” 

I nodded, and he went off to 
his cabin. I had a couple of 
candles in my pocket, for I had 
intended to explore the place, 
should we not find Marcello. 
It was there that he had dis- 
appeared that night, and my 
thoughts had been busy with it ; 
but I kept my candles concealed, 
reflecting that they would give 
our search an air of premedita- 
tion which would excite curi- 
osity. 

“ When did you see the Sig- 
nore last ? ” I asked, when he 
had returned with the lantern. 

“ I brought him his supper 
yesterday evening.” 

“ At what o’clock ? ” 

“It was the.Ave Maria, Sig- 
nore,” he replied. “He always 
sups then.” 

It would be useless to put any 
further questions. He was evi- 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. )I 


dently utterly unobserving, and 
would lie to please us. 

“ Let me go first,” said Mag- 
nin, taking the lantern. We set 
our feet upon the steps ; a cold 
air seemed to fill our lungs and 
yet to choke us, and a thick 
darkness lay beneath. The steps, 
as I could see by the light of my 
candle, were modern, as well as 
the vaulting above them. A 
tablet was let into the wall, 
and in spite of my excitement I 
paused to read it, perhaps be- 
cause I was glad to delay what- 
ever awaited us below. It ran 
thus : 

“ Questo antico sepolcro Ro- 
mano scoprl il Conte Marziali 
neir anno 1853, e piamente con- 
servo.” In plain English : 

'‘Count Marziali discovered 
this ancient Roman sepulcher in 
the year 1853, and piously pre- 
served it.” 

I read it more quickly than it 
has taken time to write here, and 
hurried after Magnin, whose foot- 
steps sounded faintly below me. 


^ 72 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 

As I hastened, a draught of cold 
air extinguished fny candle, and 
I was trying to make my way 
down by feeling along the wall, 
which was horribly dark and 
clammy, when my heart stood 
still at a cry from far beneath *me 
— a cry of horror ! 

Where are you ? ” I shouted ; 
but Magnin was calling my name, 
and could not hear me. “ I am 
here. I am in the dark ! ” 

I was making haste as fast as 
I could, but there were several 
turnings. 

“ I have found him ! ” came up 
from below. 

Alive ? ” I shouted. No 
answer. 

One last short flight brought 
me face to face with the gleam 
of the lantern. It came from a 
low doorway, and within stood 
Magnin, peering into the dark- 
ness. I knew by his face, as 
he held the light high above 
him, that our fears were realized. 

Yes; Marcello was there. He 
was lying stretched upon the 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 73 


floor, staring at the ceiling, dead, 
and already stiff, as I could see 
at a glance. We stood over him, 
saying not a word ; then I knelt 
down and felt him, for mere 
form’s sake, and said, as though 
I Had not known it before, “ He 
has been dead for some hours.” 

“ Since yesterday evening,” 
said Magnin, in a horror-stricken 
voice, yet with a certain satis- 
faction in it, as though to say, 
“You see, I was right.” 

Marcello was lying with his 
head slightly thrown back, no 
contortions in his handsome 
features ; rather the look of a 
person who has quietly died of 
exhaustion — who has slipped un- 
consciously from life to death. 
His collar was thrown open and 
a part of his breast, of a ghastly 
white, was visible. Just over the 
heart was a small spot. 

“ Give me the lantern,” I whis- 
pered, as I stooped over it. It 
was a very little spot, of a faint 
purplish-brown, and must have 
changed color within the night. 


74 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


I examined it intently, and 
should say that the blood had 
been sucked to the surface, and 
then a small prick or incision 
made. The slight sub-cutaneous 
effusion led me to this conclu- 
sion. One tiny drop of coagu- 
lated blood closed the almost 
imperceptible wound. I probed 
it with the end of one of Magnin’s 
matches. It was scarcely more 
than skin deep, so it could not 
be the stab of a stiletto, however 
slender, or the track of a bullet. 
Still, it was strange, and with 
one impulse we turned to see 
if no one were concealed there, 
or if there were no second exit. 
It would be madness to suppose 
that the murderer, if there was 
one, would remain by his victim. 
Had Marcello been making love 
to a pretty contadina, and was 
this some jealous lover’s ven- 
geance ? But it was not a stab. 
Had one drop of poison in the 
little wound done this deadly 
work ? 

We peered about the place, 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 75 

and I saw that Magnin’s eyes 
were blinded by tears and his 
face as pale as that upturned 
one on the floor, whose lids I 
had vainly tried to close. The 
chamber was low, and beauti- 
fully ornamented with stucco bas- 
reliefs, in the manner of the welb 
known one not far from there 
upon the same road. Winged 
genii, griffins, and arabesques, 
modeled with marvelous light- 
ness, covered the walls and ceil- 
ing. There was no other door 
than the one we had entered by. 
In the center stood a marble 
sarcophagus, with the usual sub- 
jects sculptured upon it ; on the 
one side Hercules conducting a 
veiled figure, on the other a 
dance of nymphs and fauns. A 
space in the middle contained 
the following inscription, deeply 
cut in the stone, and still par- 
tially filled with red pigment ; 

D. M. 

VESPERTILIAE * THC • AIMA- 
TOnaTlAOC • Q • FLAVIVS • 
VIX-IPSESOSPESMON” 
POSVIT 


76 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


“ What is this ? ” whispered 
Magnin. It was only a pickax 
and a long crowbar, such as the 
country people use in hewing out 
their blocks of “ tufa,” and his 
foot had struck against them. 
Who could have brought them 
here ? They must belong to the 
guardiano above, but he said that 
he had never come here, and I 
believed him, knowing the Italian 
horror of darkness and lonely 
places; but what had Marcello 
wanted with them? It did not 
occur to us that archaeological 
curiosity could have led him to 
attempt to open the sarcophagus, 
the lid of which had evidently 
never been raised, thus justifying 
the expression, “ piously pre- 
served.” 

As I rose from examining the 
tools, my eyes fell upon the line 
of mortar where the cover joined 
to the stone below, and I noticed 
that some of it had been removed, 
perhaps with the pickax which 
lay at my feet. I tried it with 
my nails and found that it was 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 77 


very crumbly. Without a word, 
I took the tool in my hand, 
Magnin instinctively following 
my movements with the lantern. 
What impelled us, I do not know. 
I had myself no thought, only an 
irresistible desire to see what was 
within. I saw that much of the 
mortar had been broken away, 
and lay in small fragments upon 
the ground, which I had not 
noticed before. It did not take 
long to complete the work. I 
snatched the lantern from Mag- 
nin’s hand and set it upon the 
ground, where it shone full upon 
Marcello’s dead face, and by its 
light I found a little break 
between the two masses of stone 
and managed to insert the end 
of my crowbar, driving it in with 
a blow of the pickax. The 
stone chipped and then cracked 
a little. Magnin was shivering. 

' “ What are you going to do ? ” 

he said, looking around at where 
Marcello lay. 

“Help me!” I cried, and we 
two bore with all our might upon 


78 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 

the crowbar. I am a strong man, i 
and I felt a sort of blind fury 
as the stone refused to yield. ! 
What if the bar should snap ? 
With another blow I drove it 
in still further, then using it as a 
lever, we weighed upon it with 
our outstretched arms until every 
muscle was at its highest ten- 
sion. The stone moved a little, 
and, almost fainting, we stopped 
to rest. 

From the ceiling hung the 
rusty remnant of an iron chain, 
which must once have held a 
lamp. To this, by scrambling 
upon the sarcophagus, I con- 
trived to make fast the lantern. 

“ Now ! ”.^id I, and we heaved; 
again at the lid. It rose, and 
we alternately heaved and pushed 
until it lost its balance and fell 
with a thundering crash upon 
the other side; such a crash that 
the walls seemed to shake, and 
I was for a moment utterly 
deafened, while little pieces of 
stucco rained upon us from the 
ceiling. When we had paused 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 79 


to recover from the shock, we 
leaned over the sarcophagus and 
looked in. 

The light shone full upon it, 
and we saw — how is it possible 
to tell? We saw lying there, 
amid folds of moldering rags, 
the body of a woman, perfect as 
in life, with faintly rosy face, 
soft crimson lips, and a breast 
of living pearl, which seemed to 
heave as though stirred by some 
delicious dream. The rotten stuff 
swathed about her was in ghastly 
contrast to this lovely form, fresh 
as the morning ! Her hands lay 
stretched at her side, the pink 
palms were turned a little out- 
ward, her eyes were closed as 
peacefully as those of a sleeping 
child, and her long hair, which 
shone red-golden in the dim light 
from above, was wound around 
her head in numberless finely- 
plaited tresses, beneath which 
little locks escaped in rings upon 
her brow. I could have sworn that 
the blue veins on that divinely 
perfect bosom held living blood ! 


8o A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


We were absolutely paralyzed, 
and Magnin leaned gasping over 
the edge as pale as death, paler 
by far than this living, almost 
smiling face to which his eyes 
were glued. I do not doubt that 
I was as pale as he at this in- 
explicable vision. As I looked, 
the red lips seemed to grow 
redder. They were redder ! The 
little pearly teeth showed be- 
tween them. I had not seen 
them before, and now a clear 
ruby drop trickled down to her 
rounded chin, and from there 
slipped sideways and fell upon 
her neck. Horror-struck I gazed 
upon the living corpse, till my 
eyes could not bear the sight 
any longer. As I looked away, 
my glance fell once more upon 
the mysterious inscription, half 
Latin, half Greek, and the awful 
meaning of the words flashed 
upon me suddenly as I read 
them this second time. “To 
Vespertilia” — that was in Latin, 
and even the Latin name of the 
woman suggested a thing of evil 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 8l 


flitting in the dusk. But the 
full horror of the nature of that 
thing had been veiled to Roman 
eyes under the Greek rr}^ ai/xaro- 
TtGoriSo^y “ The blood-drinker, the 
vampire woman.” And Flavius 
— her lover — vix ipse sospes, “ him- 
self hardly saved ” from that 
deadly embrace, had buried her 
here, and set a seal upon her 
sepulcher, trusting to the weight 
of stone and the strength of 
clinging mortar, to imprison for- 
ever the beautiful monster he had 
loved. 

“ Infamous murderess ! ” I cried, 
“ you have killed Marcello ! ” 
and a sudden vengeful calm came 
over me. 

“ Give me the pickax,” I said 
to Magnin. I can hear myself 
saying it still. He picked it up 
and handed it to me as in a 
dream ; he seemed little better 
than an idiot, and the beads of 
sweat were shining on his fore- 
head. I took my knife, and from 
the long wooden handle of the 
pickax I cut a fine, sharp stake. 


82 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


Then I clambered, scarcely feel- 
ing any repugnance, over the 
side of the sarcophagus, my feet 
among the folds of Vespertilia’s 
decaying winding - sheet, which 
crushed like ashes beneath my 
boot. 

I looked for one moment at 
that white breast, but only to 
choose the loveliest spot, where 
the network of azure veins shim- 
mered like veiled turquoises, and 
then with one blow I drove the 
pointed stake deep down through 
the breathing snow and stamped 
it in with my heel. 

An awful shriek, so ringing and 
horrible, that I thought my ears 
must have burst ; but even then 
I felt neither fear nor horror. 
There are times when these can- 
not touch us. I stooped and 
gazed once again at the face, 
now undergoing a fearful change 
— fearful and final ! 

“ Foul vampire ! ” I said, quietly, 
in my concentrated rage. “ You 
will do no more harm now ! " 
And then, without looking back 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 83 


l^upon her cursed face, I clambered 
out of the horrible tomb". 

. We raised Marcello, and slowly 
! carried him up the steep stairs — 
I a difficult task, for the way was 
Inarrow and he was so stiff. I 
(noticed that the steps were 
j ancient up to the end of the 
second flight ; above, the mod'ern 
I passage was somewhat broader. 

I When we reached* the top, the 
}iguardiano was lying upon one of 
jthe stone benches ; he did not 
mean us to cheat him out of his 
fee. I gave him a couple of francs. 

“ You see that we have found 
the Signore,” I tried to say in a 
^ natural voice. “ He is very weak, 
and we will carry him to the 
carriage.” I had thrown my 
If handkerchief over Marcello’s 
face, but the man knew as well 
as I that he was dead. Those 
I stiff feet told their own story, but 
Italians are timid of being in- 
if volved in such affairs. They 
|l have a childish dread of the 
i police, and he only answered, 

^ “ Poor Signorino ! He is very 


84 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


ill ; it is better to take him to 
Rome,” and kept cautiously clear 
of us as we went up to the ilex 
alley with our icy burden, and he 
did not go to the gate with us, 
not liking to be observed by the 
coachman, who was dozing on 
his box. With difficulty we got 
Marcello’s corpse into the car- 
riage, the driver turning to look 
at us suspiciously. I explained 
we had found our friend very ill, 
and at the same time slipped a 
gold piece into his hand, telling 
him to drive to the Via del 
Governo Vecchio. He pocketed 
the money, and whipped his 
horses into a trot, while we sat 
supporting the stiff body, which 
swayed like a broken doll at every 
pebble in the road. When we 
reached the Via del Governo 
Vecchio at last, no one saw us 
carry him into the house. There 
was no step before the door, and 
we drew up so close to it that 
it was possible to screen our 
burden from sight. When we 
had brought him into his room 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 85 


and laid him upon his bed, we 
noticed that his eyes were closed; 
from the movement of the car- 
riage, perhaps, though that was 
scarcely possible. The landlady 
behaved very much as I had 
expected her to do, for, as I told 
you, I know the Italians. She 
pretended, too, that the Signore 
was very ill, and made a pretense 
of offering to fetch a doctor, and, 
when I thought it best to tell 
her that he was dead, declared 
that it must have happened that 
very moment, for she had seen 
him look at us and close his eyes 
again. She had always told him 
that he ate too little and that he 
would be ill. Yes, it was weak- 
ness and that bad air out there 
which had killed him ; and then 
he worked too hard. When she 
had successfully established this 
fiction, which we were glad 
enough to agree to, for neither 
did we wish for the publicity of 
an inquest, she ran out and 
fetched a gossip to come and 
keep her company. 


86 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


So died Marcello Souvestre 
and so died Vespertilia, the blood- 
drinker, at last. 

There is not much more to tell. 
Marcello lay calm and beautiful 
upon his bed, and the students 
came and stood silently looking 
at him, then knelt down for a 
moment to say a prayer, crossed 
themselves, and left him for- 
ever. 

We hastened to the Villa 
Medici, where Detaille was 
sleeping, and Sister Claudius 
watching him with a satisfied 
look on her strong face. She 
rose noiselessly at our entrance, 
and came to us at the threshold. 

“ He will recover,” said she, 
softly. She was right. When 
he awoke and opened his eyes 
he knew us directly, and Magnin 
breathed a devout “ Thank 
God ! ” 

“Have I been ill, Magnin?” 
he asked, very feebly. 

“You have had a little fever,” 
answered Magnin, promptly ; 


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 87 


“ but it is over now. Here is 
Monsieur Sutton come to see 
you.” 

“Has Marcello been here?” 
was the next question. Magnin 
looked at him very steadily. 

“ No,” he only said, letting his 
face tell the rest. 

“ Is he dead, then ? ” Magnin 
only bowed his head. “ Poor 
friend ! ” Detaille murmured to 
himself, then closed his heavy 
eyes and slept again. 

A few days after Marcello’s 
funeral we went to the fatal 
Vigna Marziali to bring back the 
objects which had belonged to 
him. As I laid the manuscript 
score of the opera carefully to- 
gether, my eye fell upon a passage 
which struck me as the identical 
one which Detaille had so con- 
stantly sung in his delirium, and 
which I had noted down. Strange 
to say, when I reminded him of 
it later, it was perfectly new to 
him, and he declared that Mar- 
cello had not let him examine his 
manuscript. As for the veiled 


88 A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 


bust in the other room, we left it 
undisturbed, and to crumble away 
unseen. 



A SHADOW ON A WA VE. 


8q 



• • 








1 



A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 

AN artist’s story OF MODERN 
VENICE. 

I. 

are some reed- 
s' lections so exquisitely, 
CS divinely painful, 

dearer to 
me than happiness it- 
self. We have paid for 
them and they are ours. I was 
sketching in Venice, waiting for 
my wife, who was in Paris, to 
join me, and humbly trying to fix 
upon my canvas some of the 
faint opal and red tints of the 
wonderful city, and to get one, at 
least, of her many moods to shine 
upon me. I worked hard, though 
91 


92 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


there was little to show for it, as 
my wife told me when she turned 
over my many sketches. “ What, 
three slimy poles and a bit of 
green water!” she exclaimed; 
“ was that all you did in a day? 
Why didn’t you paint a whole 
view?” I do not like her to 
criticize my studies. She handles 
them unlovingly, looks at them 
upside down, and says, “ If you 
would only enlarge that and 
make a picture of it, and put in 
some figures, I might have the 
pink dress after all.” Three 
palaces, several gondolas, and a 
flock of pigeons mean the pink 
dress, and six palaces, more gon- 
dolas, and more pigeons mean 
Paris and Judic. We had been 
married several years, and she 
had never interfered with my 
work, but neither had she ever 
helped it. How could an artist 
help wanting such a pretty crea- 
ture for his own, fancying that 
her mere presence must prove an 
inspiration to great works, and 
that his laurels could not fail to 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 93 


thrive at the touch of her charm- 
ing hand ? 

I could not guess that she did 
not care for laurels, and would 
give them all for an artificial rose 
from a milliner’s window. What 
if it were scentless and made of 
pink calico ! It set off her pret- 
tiness better than the immortal 
wreath ! 

Well, I am saying too much 
or too little, so I will stop. She 
has done her best, so have I, and 
if two bests cannot mingle in a 
perfect whole, it is that they 
have no affinity for each other. 
We have never had a harsh 
word, never sulked, and never 
grumbled to sympathizing friends, 
but got on amicably and decently; 
I producing pictures which re- 
sulted in pink, green, or blue 
dresses, as the fashion might be, 

and she Yes, I honestly 

think that she has never been 
unhappy with me. Wild, thank- 
ful, choking happiness does not 
lie in her nature, and she does 
not miss it. At the time I am 


94 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


writing of, several pictures had 
brought a satisfactory number of 
dresses — all too important not to 
be seen to personally — and, as she 
had been invited by her married 
sister to stay with her in Paris, 
with a perspective of Trouville 
and Judic, it seemed to her a 
proof of an all-wise Providence 
which should not be passed over. 

So we parted in Paris; she 
rather absent in her expressions 
of decent regret, for she had an 
appointment about a bonnet, and 
I neither glad nor sorry ; but 
thinking whether I would not 
have done better to take more 
sketching blocks along with me, 
and whether canvasses were prop- 
erly packed. 

When I got to the station I 
found that there was half an 
hour still before me, for, as I 
have said, my wife was in a hurry 
to say good-by, and I drove to 
the colorman’s and laid in more 
blocks ; for no sooner had I 
breathed the railway atmosphere ‘ 
and smelled that indescribable 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 95 


mixture of smoke, oil, and porters, 
which is so suggestive of travel 
and liberty, that I felt Venice 
upon me, and knew that I should 
work there. 

As I was driving back, with my 
arms full of “ Whatman’s,” a 
carriage passed me, and in it, 
with her sister, sat my wife. 
She did not see me, being busily 
engaged in describing some ob- 
ject, and by the way her well- 
gloved hands fluttered around 
her graceful head, I concluded 
that it must be the bonnet. 

My sensation was a strange 
one. It seemed to me as though 
years had gone by since I had 
seen her last, though some of 
the perfume from her neat little 
parting embrace was still .cling- 
ing to my coat. I hate perfumes, 
but she likes them. Venice lay 
between us, and I felt no emotion 
at the recognition, but instead 
the dome of the “Salute” 
swelled like a pearly bubble 
against the azure sky, and the 
slow waves were lapping around 


g6 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


my gondola. My soul was al- 
ready there, though my body was 
being jolted in a cab through the 
Rue de la Paix. 

Of the journey there is little 
to be said. I had a companion 
all the way, evidently a fellow- 
countryman, and after our 
national fashion we avoided ex- 
changing a word or even a 
mute civility. 

He interested me in so far that 
I noticed a color-box and sketch- 
ing-stool among his traps, and 
that he seemed to eye mine. 
When 'we reached Verona, our 
national ice began to thaw, and 
he said : 

“ May I ask if you are .an 
artist ? ” 

I pointed to my luggage. 

“ May I put the same ques- 
tion ? ” 

“Well, not exactly an artist,” 
he answered, “ but I am trying 
to become one.” The modest 
answer pleased me. I had al- 
ready taken rather a fancy to his 
face, for there was a look in his 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 97 


eyes as though they saw to good 
purpose, so we fell into talk, and 
finally, as Venice lay before us, 
a faint rosy vision floating upon 
a fiery sea, we exchanged cards, 
and he was good enough to say 
that my name was not unknown 
to him. “ San Giorgio at Early 
Morning, ” in the last year’s 
Academy, had made him ac- 
quainted with it. 

At Venice we parted, to meet 
occasionally sitting in our gon- 
dolas before old palaces or float- 
ing slowly down lonely canals, 
where scarlet pomegranate blos- 
soms, hanging over a sun-bathed 
wall, were too good to be passed 
unheeded, their glorious bloom 
burning and quivering against 
the midday sky. 

We met sometimes, too, at 
the “ Ristorante di San Mois^,” 
where I often dined or supped, 
liking to feel thoroughly among 
Italians. I had no wish to fall a 
prey to parties of mechanically 
industrious fools of my own 
nation, who would quote the 


98 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


“ Stones of Venice,” and ruth- 
lessly spoil a day of work by 
forcing me to take them to yawn 
at pictures which any guide could 
have shown them. No, I pre- 
ferred the guests of San Mois^, 
who did not even know my name, 
and from whose intrusion I was 
as safe as though I had been 
invisible. They amused me, too, 
and I got to know them and their 
favorite dishes by heart. Italians 
are the best of natural actors; 
spontaneous, and yet wonderfully 
finished in their style. They all 
appeared to be upon brotherly 
terms with Domenico, the bland 
waiter, who would skip away and 
bring each his particular pref- 
erence with the air of saying, 
“ See how I have thought of 
you ! ” 

There was one very shabby 
old gentleman who, for some 
mysterious reason, always got 
the finest fish, and seemed to pay 
less for it than anybody else. 
This did not prevent him from 
scolding over his salad ; but I 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 99 


came to know that he would 
smile again at the “ Risotto,” 
and he and Domenico always 
parted the best of friends, though 
he never left a propitiatory soldo 
behind upon the plate when he 
paid his problematically small 
reckoning. 

One languid youth used to 
arrive punctually every day at 
the same hour and sink down at 
his place on an ottoman near 
the door, saying, in an exhaustive 
tone, “ Bring me something — 
anything you like,” as though 
the best were too bad for choice. 

For a long time I took him for 
some pampered creature bereft 
momentarily of a cook, until I 
saw him one day showing some 
purchasers about Salviati’s rooms, 
when I understood that his punc- 
tuality was no matter of choice, 
nor his dinner neither, and that 
he was probably a humble sub- 
scriber at fifty centimes the meal, 
though a prince could not have 
consumed it more disdainfully. 

I do not know why I have dwelt 


loo A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


upon these childish details, un- 
less it be because all that time 
is dear to me, and that these 
figures belong to the picture— a 
picture so vivid to me that life 
seems a dream beside it. I used 
to go to and fro in my gondola, 
though you may walk from one 
end of Venice to the other. My 
gondoliere always took the same 
way through the maze.of melan- 
choly little canals. I remarked 
that a certain window in an old 
palace was always lighted, and 
that behind a thin curtain moved 
mechanically the shadow of a 
hand and arm, up and down — up 
and down, with occasionally a 
profile, indistinct but graceful, 
bending forward as if to examine 
the stitches. A lighted window 
with a woman’s shadow behind 
it in a lonely canal in Venice is 
a romance in itself, and from 
only noticing that every evening 
the hand was busily at work, I 
came to watching for it from the 
turn at the corner, where the 
gondoliere sang out his long- 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. lOl 


drawn, O preml ! ” or “ O 
stall! ! ” in warning, melancholy 
notes. 

“What canal is this?” I 
had once asked him in my 
pedantic Italian, and he had 
answered in his soft Venetian, 
“ Xe lo Canaleto Barbarigo.” By 
day, when I passed that way, 
the curtain remained drawn. 

Was the worker behind it ? I 
could not tell. Sometimes, as I 
went to my midday meal, I saw 
an old man, in a faded dressing- 
gown, leaning listlessly out of 
another window, his thin old eye- 
lids blinking in the sunshine and 
his long hands despondently 
rubbing his threadbare elbows. 
He used to look up and down 
the canal, then fix his pale, 
feeble eyes on the green water 
below, indifferent to who came or 
went. 

One day the moldy-looking 
green curtain behind him was 
parted, and a lovely hand was 
laid gently ancl questioningly 
upon his arm. He did not 


102 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


move, and presently a beautiful 
girl appeared beside him. She 
might have stepped out of a 
picture by Palma Vecchio ; white 
and amber-tinted, with, true 
auburn gold hair crisped at the 
temples and making a glory 
about her head as the sun 
caught the golden tendrils. She 
drew nearer to him still, and, 
laying her rounded cheek against 
his withered one, stood silently 
looking down into the water 
from which he had never raised 
his eyes. Suddenly they met 
mine as I was gazing upward. 
He turned sharply, and, pushing 
or drawing the girl back, dis- 
appeared, and the curtain fell 
together again. From within 
it must have been transparent 
enough, but from without one 
could only see its worn and faded 
pattern as it moved in the hot 
midday air. I have said that' 
the little canal was a lonely one, 
though it led to noisy, crowded 
San Moise. I had chosen an 
out-of-the-way place to live in, 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. IO3 


and the way there lay through 
half Venice, alternatively popu- 
lous and deserted. 

My lodgings consisted of two 
rooms in a tumble-down palace, 
with a dilapidated stone balcony, 
which had taken my fancy. It 
had a moss-grown entrance, and 
the green seaweed came up at 
high tide and hung upon its 
broken steps, while crabs and 
other crawling creatures went 
in and out of the deep sea-worn 
holes. 

Within dwelt innumerable 
poor families, who crawled about 
much after the fashion of the 
inmates on the door-steps. With 
true Italian tact they showed no 
surprise at my presence among 
them. I was the Signore 
Inglese — that was all. But, as 
I passed up and down the stairs, 
cooking would be going on 
within the open doors, or they 
would be sitting “to enjoy the 
air,” such as it was, upon their 
dim landings, eating some name- 
less mess, which they never failed 


104 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


to offer me with a smile and a 
gracious word of courtesy. 

“ It is poor people’s stuff, 
Signore, but favor us ! ” It 
was miserable food, indeed, but 
the smile and the grace befitted 
princes. The true Italian, un- 
taught and uncivilized, is a 
native gentleman. If he has 
but a crust in his hand, he will 
so courteously invite you to 
share it that it turns to truffles 
and foie gras. Though one does 
not feel moved to taste the 
morsel, one is compelled to 
refuse it with ingenious polite- 
ness, “ I have just dined ” being 
the usual formula. “ I regret 
it ! ” is invariably the response 
from, for all we know, the de- 
scendant of emperors, and with 
a well-bred “ Pardon me ! ” he 
falls hungrily to again. Perhaps 
• my Italian-Iooking face made 
them feel more at home with 
me, for an Italian ancestress 
exists as no mere tradition in 
my family. The story goes that 
a great-grandfather of mine. 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 105 


while making “ the grand tour,” 
fashionable in his day, carried 
her off from a convent in Padua 
on the very eve of her taking the 
veil. How he had got sight or 
speech of her we never knew, 
or how the flight was managed. 
No pursuit seems to have been 
made by the family ; perhaps 
they preferred to conceal the 
scandal ; and she lived unmo- 
lested to become a very old lady 
in the dear, quiet Yorkshire home 
now sold long ago. 

She brought with her a pair of 
dark eyes, a string of pearls, and 
a temper. 

The pearls were sold when 
the house had to go, but the 
eyes and the temper seem in- 
alienable. 

Alas ! We have no children 
to inherit them ! As I have 
said, I worked very hard in ^ 
those Venetian days, making 
many sketches, some of which 
pleased me, while others pro- 
foundly discouraged me. 

One blazing noonday, as I 


Io6 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


passed the old Palazzo in the 
“ Canaleto Barbarigo,” the lights 
and shadows disposed themselves 
so grandly over its weather- 
beaten surface — here tawny gold, 
and there transparent umber — 
bringing out so finely the 
peculiar crumbly grain of the 
stone, that I stopped my gon- 
dola and sat considering whether 
it would not make a sketch 
worth having. 

As I leaned back, looking up 
to where its cornice stood in 
contrast to the sky above it, 
almost white for very heat, a 
window opened — the window 
rather — and my beautiful Vene- 
tian leaned out, looking anxiously 
up and down the canal as though 
expecting somebody. As she 
looked, her eyes fell full upon 
mine, and for a moment they 
^ rested upon my up-turned face 
with quiet curiosity. I had left 
my color-box behind me that 
day, and must have seemed to 
her a mere idle gazer at the old 
house, which probably she could 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 107 


not realize was worth a glance. 
As for me, I sat fixed and stupe- 
fied by her wonderful beauty, 
the sun illuminating and glorify- 
ing it. 

I forgot that it must appear 
rude beyond words to sit staring 
at her, nor did she remind me 
of it by withdrawing. 

By the searching light she 
looked more delicate and fragile 
than I had thought her to be, 
suggesting a gorgeous flower 
grown in the shade. I fancied 
there was a look of care about 
the exquisite lips, self-control 
in the rounded, upturned chin, 
and that the deep amber eyes 
told of watching. Her ripply 
hair parted in waves over her 
straight white forehead, and lay 
low upon her neck in a careless, 
silky coil, held together by a 
forked pin such as all Venetian 
women wear. As she turned her 
head, I saw her profile sharply 
defined by the background of 
the curtain behind her. Her 
face became animated ; the object 


Io8 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


of her waiting must be in sight. 
I followed her glance, but saw 
only a flat boat laden with silvery 
fish shining and glinting in the 
sun. She stooped to take some- 
thing from behind the curtain, 
and I saw that it was a little 
basket which she began to lower 
by a string. Was she tending 
a love-letter? If so, where was 
the lover? Surely not the rugged 
old fisherman, who pushed on 
until the basket swung almost 
in front of him. Then he stopped 
with a backward stroke of his 
oar, as at a preconcerted signal, 
drew the basket toward him as 
he steadied himself in the boat, 
and put in his brown hand. My 
heart beat high with expectation. 
1 was looking on a romance, and 
this old man was the messenger 
charged to carry the letter to an 
impatient adorer. This was 
what I fancied, but what hap- 
pened was very simple and 
prosaic. He drew out his hand 
again, opened wide the grimy 
palm, and displayed a few coppers. 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. IO9 


He counted them over slowly, 
looked up at the window, shrug- 
ging his shoulders with out- 
stretched arms, then tossed the 
coins discontentedly among his 
wares, and proceeded to weigh 
out, scales in hand, and with 
critical nicety, a little heap of 
fish. One more he threw into 
the basket, as a charitable after- 
thought, then he sent it upward 
with a contemptuous jerk. 

I watched it spinning through 
the air as the girl above reeled 
in the string, her white arms, 
but half concealed by her scanty 
sleeves, gleaming like pearl in 
the sunlight. As I looked I 
caught her serious gaze once 
more. No blush or embarrass- 
ment at being seen buying such 
a poor meal appeared upon her 
perfect face. Italians know no 
false shame, though pride is 
sometimes mistaken for it. 

But I blushed like a conven- 
tional Englishman, feeling guilty 
at having witnessed the pitiful 
little purchase, and with a 


no A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


shamefaced air I bade my gon- 
doliere move on, stealing a last 
glance at the lovely girl. She 
was looking after me thought- 
fully, as if to say, “ What can he 
be blushing about?” Yes, I 
would certainly make a sketch 
of the place. Perhaps, too, I 
should see her sometimes, and 
might steal that peerless face 
on to my canvas, and so make 
it mine forever ! The thought 
thrilled me with a possessive 
joy. The next morning saw me 
established in my gondola, which 
was moored to a ring in a garden 
wall opposite, my easel before 
me, and setting my palette in an 
exultant mood. I had told my 
gondoliere that, if he could get 
away, he might be gone for a 
couple of hours to a neighboring 
wine-shop, with some soldi to 
spend in Valpolicella. So he 
had stepped on to a wood barge 
which was going slowly by. A 
glance and a jerk of the head 
had asked, “ Where are you 
bound for ? ” A responsive jerk 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. Ill 


of head and thumb had answered 
satisfactorily, and he strode over 
on to the sluggishly moving boat 
and sat down at the bow in a 
talkative attitude, knees up and 
chin down, on his elbows, evi- 
dently prepared to enjoy himself 
in dealing and receiving gossip. 
I was left alone with the old 
Palazzo, the sun, and the pigeons, 
who restlessly circled above my 
head, not knowing what to make 
of this stranger. At last they 
seemed to say to themselves, in 
true Venetian fashion, “ He is a 
foreigner, therefore a little mad. 
We will let him alone!’’ and 
settled down upon a roof not far 
off, coquettishly pluming and 
preening their glistening feathers. 
I began to put in my sketch, and 
suddenly felt as I have done 
in painting some portraits : I 
could not see behind the features. 
The sun-gilt walls looked dead 
and blind to me. Could I but see 
through them ! 

It was the old story : nose, 
eyes, and oval all right, but no 


112 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


soul ; and I became impatient of 
the beautiful senseless mask. 
At last the soul looked out. 
Just as I was, brush in hand, 
measuring the height of the 
windows, one was thrown open, 
and the lovely inmate stood 
revealed, as though the doors of 
a shrine should part and show 
the saint within. This time she 
gazed neither to right nor left, 
but straight at me — long and 
intensely. Then the window 
closed again. It was but a 
short glimpse after all, but the 
life was there for me, warm, 
breathing, shining forth from 
behind the walls. I painted on, 
hoping that she would reappear, 
but she did not. I tried to 
fancy that the curtain slightly 
parted, but it was only the 
breeze through the half-shut 
casement. It was vain and 
foolish to try to persuade myself 
that my proceeding could inter- 
est her ; and yet I was disap- 
pointed. 

In due time my gondoliere 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. II3 

returned upon another friendly 
barge, and was vociferous in 
praises of my work. 

“So very like,” said he; “es- 
pecially the windows.” 

Strange to say, I was glad 
when he came and I could leave 
the place. It seemed to me as 
though all around belonged to 
the woman within, and that I 
was stealing it from her. 

I said to myself, “ I will not 
come again ” ; but the next morn- 
ing, when I looked at my work, 
it seemed a pity to leave it so. 
An hour or two more would 
complete it, and make it smile 
with light and air. I thought 
how that smile from Venice 
would cheer many a murky 
London day, and, at rest with 
my scruples, born perhaps only 
of mortified vanity, I was the 
next day again sitting before the 
Palazzo. It was smiling broadly 
in the sunshine, welcoming the 
admirer of its mellow old age. 

I seemed to understand it 
better to-day, and my eyes 


114 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


sought out lovingly the little 
details I had neglected before, 
w'hile my brush caressed the 
canvas with touches from the 
heart, such as we bestow upon 
the picture of a friend. This 
time no beautiful vision showed 
itself at the window, but I made 
good progress with my work. 
One day more and it should be 
put aside. Perhaps she would 
miss me then and w'onder why I 
did not come. I was weakly 
craving to interest this lonely 
Avoman. Was Venice casting 
a glamor over me, relaxing my 
nerves and will, unmanning me 
to a fanciful, self-condoling, sickly 
fool, hungry for the human sym- 
pathy I had learned so Avell to do 
Avithout ? 

I must shake off this shameful 
mood ! Even to consider it 
Avas to acknoAvledge its power. 
I AVOLild go to San Moise and 
look at the people eating their 
macaroni, and listen to my old 
gentleman scolding over his 
salad ! 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. II5 


In the cool, shaded hall, with 
its glass roof pleasantly awned 
over, I saw my railway acquain- 
tance^ — Weston was his name — 
sitting at a little table before an 
assortment of curious, many- 
limbed sea creatures, trying them 
in turn, and making wry faces, 
while Domenico stood a little 
apart, anxiously watching for the 
dawn of a look of approval. I 
had bargained to sit among 
men and let their prosaic doings 
bring me to a prosaic self again, 
but here was Weston to talk and 
be talked to. This staggered 
the fool within me, and I turned 
from the door unseen. I felt 
impelled to go and seek my food 
where none of my countrymen 
might be met with, and threaded 
the little “ Calli ” at random, 
feeling lighter-hearted the deeper 
I dived into the crowded alleys. 
What pictures I found there ! 
Dark-haired girls stood at the 
windows combing out their long 
locks, while th.ey kept up a 
stream of gossip with their 


Il6 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


neighbors over the way. No 
doubt it would have proved 
virulent backbiting could one 
have understood it ; but it was 
so soft and sweet-sounding from 
their Venetian tongues that one 
fancied the cruelest epithets 
could scarcely wound more than 
a handful of rose leaves. 

Handsome, mild-eyed women 
were sitting on low chairs before 
their dark doorways, with their 
babies at their breasts, as inno- 
cently as Raphael’s Madonnas, 
and half-naked children leaned at 
their knees, doing nothing, and 
missing nothing. I had bought 
a bunch of deep-toned carnations 
somewhere on my way for the 
sake of their splendid tints, and 
the only begging I met with was 
when, now and then, some child 
would say, confidently looking up 
into my face, “ Signore ! give me 
a flower ! ” stretching out its 
hands and never doubting. It 
would run with its prize to its 
mother, who, though she pre- 
tended to chide, thrust the dark 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


17 


red blossom into her braided 
hair, giving me a friendly smile 
and nod the while. Or she would 
lean and brush it over the cheek 
of the sleeping baby until it 
waked to crush the spicy petals 
in its plump little fist. Cooking 
was being done in dark, cavernous 
shops. Old women carried off 
steaming fish in dingy handker- 
chief's, and a smoky oil-lamp 
showed gondolieri sitting over 
their wine, doubtless discussing 
their favorite subjects of wages 
or politics. The yellow rays of 
the lamp just showed the way 
from hand to mouth, falling upon 
their eager faces, and faintly in- 
dicating the figure of the hostess, 
the baby asleep over her shoul- 
der, as she stood listening to 
their talk, flask in hand, and 
hand on hip. Pretty girls went 
by, clapping their heelless slip- 
pers on the pavement, and cast- 
ing glances within which seemed 
to imply that Tonio or Biagio 
sitting there might be better 
employed in a little harmless 


Il8 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


love-making than with politics 
and Valpolicella. It was all 
simple and natural ; no looking 
backward or forward. The 
people seemed at ease in their 
poverty, the sky and the sun 
being always with them, and 
yesterday and to-morrow ap- 
peared as fevered fancies bred 
of civilization. I had wandered 
about for some time, not perceiv- 
ing that I was hungry. Another 
hunger than that of the body 
had been soothed, or rather 
dulled, within me by the simple 
life around me, but now I was 
reminded by the comfortable, 
appetizing smell that I had not 
eaten for many hours. 

The small wineshop was empty, 
save for a group of men, four or 
five of them, who sat at the 
table in the corner and took no 
notice of my entrance beyond 
looking up as my shadow dark- 
ened the threshold. This was, 
unlike the others, a bright, clean 
little room. Its pale blue plas^ 
tered walls were stencilled with 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 119 


a tidy pattern, colored prints 
of Umberto and Vittorio Em- 
manuele adorning them, and a 
coldly hideous plaster bust of 
“II Re Galantuomo “ occupied 
a conspicuous place. I sat down 
to eat my primitive dinner,- and 
listen to the men’s talk, un- 
fathomable jargon though it was 
to me. They glanced once at 
me suspiciously as I strained my 
ears to understand it ; then, 
seeming reassured, went on with 
their theme. One of them, an 
old man, thumped upon the 
table, and repeated “ Garibaldi ! ” 
making the glasses ring. He 
seemed to connect no especial 
idea with this- heroic name, but 
rather to announce it as a sort of 
talismanic formula whenever his 
companions, as far as I could 
make out, contradicted his 
opinions. Very likely neither 
he nor they knew that the great 
man had long been at rest ; for 
Italians of their class are prone 
to take up an idea or a catch- 
word, and go on living upon it — 


120 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


or rather talking about it — ^long 
after it is dead to the news-read- 
ing world. 

At last they rose from their 
seats, casting lots as to who 
should pay the score, and I was 
alone again — alone with that self 
that startled me as would a cage- 
born bird were it to stretch its 
w-ings for flight and beat its head 
against the bars. I made good 
my small reckoning and wan- 
dered out into the narrow streets. 
Utter weariness, kept off so far 
by this unknown mood, in itself 
an excitement, fell upon me as I 
purposely paced the darkening 
“ Calli,” and I thought with dull 
satisfaction how good it would 
be to fall asleep listening to the 
lapping of the water below. 
When I had reached home and 
had let myself in at the land 
entrance, groping my way up the 
murky stairs by the light of a 
match, I found a letter slipped 
under my door. I knew the 
handwriting. It was from my 
wife. She had not written for 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 12 1 


some time, and this was a budget 
of news. So-and-so was engaged 
to So-and-so and was looking as 
though he repented it already. 
Bonnets were worn frightfully 
high again. Sir Edward Eustace 
was in Paris disgracing himself 
with a pretty actress. She, my 
wife, was going with her sister 
to Trouville, and was sure she 
would look quite shabby among 
all those charming toilets, and I 
was to paint as many pictures as 
I possibly could, and not waste 
my time falling in love with 
pretty Venetians. “You know 
you are awfully .good-looking, 
dear boy, and I ought to be a 
jealous wife ! But I am not, and 
the proof of this is that Em 
going to stay away from you for 
some time yet, if you don’t really 
want me — and I don’t think you 
do. I can’t say just when I 
shall come, but I’ll let you know. 
Paris is cool, and we hear that 
Trouville is quite comfortable. 
You know I hate Venice ; I never 
can forget the mosquitoes there ! 


122 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


In fact, my left arm has never 
been the same since. Don’t make 
yourself ill with that horrid 
Italian cookery ! You know how 
onions disagree with you, and 
how cross you are then ! If you 
do get ill, be sure to have an 
English doctor. Have you corne 
across the Fords? They left us 
the other day, and wanted your 
address, but I forgot to give it 
them. People say they are try- 
ing to run down young Newton, 
who has just come into his prop- 
erty ; but he doesn’t seem to 
see it ! Your affectionate wife.” 
When I had read it, I went to 
my balcony and leaned out in the 
still night air. The moon was 
gone, and only the brilliant stars 
shone down on sleeping Venice. 
The waves plashed gently 
against the steps, and a smell 
of seaweed mounted up to me 
refreshingly. In the opposite 
house a single window was 
lighted, showing a poor and 
dreary room. Within sat a 
sleepy woman rocking a cradle. 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 1 23 


I had often watched her, for she 
had a sick child, whose fretful 
crying sometimes reached me 
across the narrow canal. She 
was young, and had a certain 
grace in the turn of her head ; 
and though she was haggard and 
slipshod, her ways with the poor, 
pinched and mean-looking baby 
made her almost beautiful. Now 
she sat with her foot upon the 
cradle, her head drooped heavily. 
Every now and then the cradle 
would stop, and a thin, querulous 
wail come from it ; and then she 
would begin her rocking again, 
until sleep once more overcame 
her. 

I At last, worn out, she crouched 
down upon the floor, her head 
laid close to the child’s hand, her 
lips kissing it, and moving as if 
whispering baby-language of love 
and comfort. 

A divine patience wrapped her 
round as with a garment, making 
the wretched room sacred and 
lovely. 

It is a miserable platitude to 


124 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


say that artists are prone to 
fancy. Had they none, they 
would not be artists. Not only 
every beauty belongs to us, but 
it develops new ones. We see 
what it would be under other 
circumstances ; we live with it, 
know it, love it, and it becomes 
a part of ourselves. Deeper and 
deeper it sinks into our hearts, 
as do the traits of one well- 
beloved, and, at last, as happily- 
married men are said to forget 
their wives’ features, so clearly 
do they see through them into* 
the soul, so do we forget that 
beauty is beauty. We see only 
its relation to our diviner fibers. 
It ceases to be a mere perfection, 
and becomes a good. My sickly 
mood of the morning had passed 
away. My wife’s letter had dis- 
pelled it, and now I could think 
of my beautiful Venetian as of a 
precious picture which I was 
longing to copy for my own 
possession — nothing more. I 
had never seen such a perfe'ctly 
beautiful woman. Who — though 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 1 25 


it seems contradictory to what I 
have been writing — who does not 
know the longing and despair at 
the sight of a divinely lovely 
thing ? — the reaching out to it, 
the sense of immeasurable dis- 
tance, the terrible void in our 
hearts when we say, “ It is not 
ours," and the strangely lonely 
feeling that comes over us when 
we realize that it is not related to 
us even by the most gossamer 
thread of sympathy? For her I 
did not exist, or, strictly speaking, 
I only did so when moored before 
her window as a persistent, per- 
haps troublesome sketcher. She 
did not seem vain. Certainly she 
did not show herself so. What 
' was I to her that her royal eyes 
should seek mine ? Nothing ! 
I Had I sunk deep into the green 
water beneath her window, she 
would only have cried “ Poe- 
rello ! ’’ and crossed herself with 
those white fingers. These were 
the thoughts which floated in my 
mind as I stood letting the silent 
night calm my fretful heart and 


126 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


brain. I cannot tell if they were 
all true, and I see by what I have 
written that two beings may live 
in the same body : one cool and 
philosophical, the other weak 
and human in its longings. May 
God, who has thought fit to 
make our hearts of so many 
pieces, comfort and pardon themJ 
The days went on, and my 
picture with them. Once or 
twice she came to the window, 
but the old man leaned every 
day over the faded cushion in 
the warm sunshine. He seemed 
to take a curious, lethargic in- 
terest in my doings, and I grew 
to fancy that his face varied as 
he looked at me. Sometimes it 
seemed friendly ; at others, sus- 
picious ; then cold, as if I had 
failed in something he had ex- 
pected from me. Fancies of 
mine these, too ! I was trying 
at home in my studio to seize 
on my canvas my broken glimpses 
of the daughter’s face — she could 
only be his daughter — and I would 
come back with some line or 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 127 


small detail in my eye, and put 
it down quickly, saying, “ This 
none can take from me. It is 
mine at last ! ” Those long hot 
days of dream-like possession 
and quiet work were infinitely 
soothing. It was as though 
they must last forever, and I 
lived in a world of calm, with 
nothing to wish for ; no memory, 
and no anticipation. The cool, 
misty sunrise, bountiful noonday, 
gorgeous sunset, and the warm, 
still night followed each other, 
their comfort sinking into my 
spirit, and touching with healing 
the sore places which even the 
happiest of us has somewhere 
in his heart. Looking back upon 
that time, I see that it was as 
near to happiness as I have ever 
come. Do not think that I like 
to be away from my wife. Her 
ways are very pretty and she 
makes one’s surroundings very 
charming. Of course, every man 
is glad to have his wife with 
him. But it seemed to me that 
in this dreamland there was 


128 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


neither marrying nor giving in 
marriage. Besides, we had lived 
together for many years, though 
I was but thirty-two and she 
twenty-six. I have told you that 
we married so young. We have 
always got on well with each 
other, whether together or apart, 
and you know that we have never 
quarreled, which is more than 
most couples can say. Perhaps 
— but no matter ! 

My sketch of the old palazzo 
was finished, but I had begun 
another, this time simply with 
a hope of seeing the lovely 
woman who lived within. Her 
perfect beauty almost wearied 
me ; it was so difficult to grasp. 
Sometimes, as I sat there, • she 
would come and stand at the 
window for a moment, and then 
it was as if the sun broke from 
behind a cloud, and I was too 
dazzled to calmly stare at it. 
She never wore any other dress 
but the old-fashioned white jacket 
or bed-gown, as it used to be 
called, which Italian women of 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 129 


the humbler classes seem to affect 
when at home. But she could 
have chosen nothing more grate- 
ful to an artist’s eye. It was 
cut somewhat low about the neck 
and simply gathered into a band, 
her magnificent throat rising 
from it untrammeled with all 
its finely swelling curves and 
tender shadows. Her splendid 
shoulders showed their outlines 
through the thin linen as do 
those of an antique bust under 
the gathered folds of the cun- 
ningly worked marble. Her 
sleeves only half hid the firmly 
rounded arms with the smoothly 
modeled transition from hand to 
wrist and the lissom play of 
muscle. How I used to be 
perplexed by the shining disorder 
of her hair! Sometimes it lay 
low in a wavy coil ; sometimes 
she had carelessly gathered it 
high upon her head, leaving free 
the strong yet flowing outline of 
her neck where it joined the 
shoulder ; and once or twice she 
looked out, evidently in the act 


130 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


of combing it, with its golden 
waves spread out and flowing 
down out of sight. But in all 
this there appeared no vanity, 
and her face wore the lovely 
unconsciousness of a child who 
has not yet looked in a mirror. 
Her eyes had the direct gaze 
of a child too, knowing nothing 
of the world and never fearing 
to be misunderstood. 

I could easily have learned 
her name. The gondoliere surely 
could have told it me, or at least 
discovered it for me ; but I did 
not like the man’s inquisitive 
looks, and preferred her nameless 
and inviolate. I tried to fancy 
how other women’s faces would 
look beside hers, but they seemed 
to fade, or I forgot them. Even 
that of my wife, the joy of 
milliners, for it persisted in look- 
ing charming in spite of their 
disguises, even that one I could 
not see distinctly. It was im- 
possible to fancy this face with 
a fashionable bonnet above it. 
It seemed only fit for a halo or 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. T31 


a laurel wreath, though I had no 
doubt that, being a woman, she 
would have preferred the last 
Paris monstrosity. They all do. 
I had no desire to know her. 
Very likely her head was as 
empty as the usual Italian girPs, 
and contained a prayer or two in 
Latin which she could not under- 
stand, a dimly patriotic senti- 
ment, and a love .story, past, 
present, or to come ; perhaps a 
few French words and a bit of 
Tasso. What could she have to 
think about ? Probably that she 
would like to have a gondola, the 
two gondolier! in livery, a box at 
the theater, and, alas ! enough 
to eat every day ; that the old 
fisherman gave very few fish for 
the money, and that she would 
like to be sitting in the Piazza, 
in front of Florian’s, listening 
to the band, eating ices, and 
looking at the slim young officers, 
in case that one already had not 
taken her fancy. What manner 
of fellow might he be? Dark- 
eyed, of course, small brained. 


132 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 

and good-looking, destined to 
make her wretched, and already- 
ogling some vacant-faced In- 
glisina ” with a fancied fortune. 
No ! This was desecration ! Let 
her think nothing rather than 
this poor stuff! Still, it seemed 
to me that a look of anxiety or 
excitement, different from the ex- 
pression of daily care which I 
had remarked before, was gradu- 
ally stamping itself on her face, 
as if something had waked up 
behind it, and were troubling her. 
Alas, that such a face could 
fade, such eyes weep ! They 
were born to shine and rejoice 
like the sun in the heavens ! 




11 . 



HE golden gloom of San 
Marco — the gold -en- 
crusted vault like a 
golden cave hollowed 
out by the sea — the 
arches so rounded, as 
though by the continual ebb and 
flow of the waves — who does not 
know them ? Over all, permeat- 
ing all, is a golden light, as if 
penetrating through deep amber 
waters which might roll on far 
above our heads, leaving this 
strange and precious shrine in- 
violate and immortal. This 
mysterious beauty I was trying 
to realize, as I sat half hidden 
in a shadowy corner on Corpus 
Domini morning. The feast fell 
late that year, and the heat 
133 


134 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


without made the mellow shade 
within the glorious church all 
the more delicious and refresh- 
ing. 

My gondoliere had 'waked me 
early, telling me that all the 
foreigners would be there — as if 
that could be a temptation to 
me I I went in the confidence 
of finding none, and proved right 
with the exception of my ac- 
quaintance, Weston, and a few 
forlorn looking Germans, with 
shawls slung about their shoulders, 
who seemed awed and uncom- 
fortable, and did not stay long. 
The heat had driven the crowd 
of tourists away from Venice. 
As for me, I went to see the 
Venetians, and from my corner 
I watched many a charming or 
characteristic group, for, as I 
told you, I like to be among 
unknown fellow - creatures, and 
to feel at liberty to watch them 
as from behind a mask. Most 
of them came and went airily 
and happily, as though their 
souls were not oppressed by any 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 1 35 


great sins. Some came in a 
hurry, assisted at a single mass, 
and went out again ; some 
followed the services from altar 
to altar, their faces gathering 
fervor as they went ; and others 
settled down in quiet corners, 
apparently unconscious of every- 
thing around, their lips moving 
the while, and their eyes closed. 
Doubtless they were making 
progress in their own way. 
Whole families would straggle 
in and stand patiently behind 
others until these arose satisfied 
with their spiritual gains ; and 
then each member, seizing the 
back of the hardly abandoned 
chair with a murmured “ Pardon 
me,” would establish itself for 
its share of spiritual refreshment, 
and become an object of envy to 
those behind. 

Very charming it was to see 
even the poorest and shabbiest 
receive the holy water proffered 
from the outstretched fingers of 
a passer-by with a gently in- 
clination of the head, and a half 


736 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


smile of thanks, unembarrassed, 
polished, and impersonal. Let 
Italians alone, and they will 
always do the right thing. 
Nothing but civilization can 
make them tactless or awkward. 
As I watched the ever-flowing 
stream of worshipers, I said to 
myself that fate could not be 
suspended for them even in the 
sacred shadow of San Marco, 
that ours follows us at all times, 
and that among those many 
lives there must be many also 
whose destiny was reaching its 
decisive point under my very 
eyes. Some happiness was ex- 
panding like a child’s bubble, 
growing more perfect every 
moment, and shimmering with 
rainbow tints ; some other just 
swelled to its most airy sym- 
metry, then breaking and vanish- 
ing with its loveliest colors 
upon it. It was a strange thing 
to feel one’s self in contact with 
these other lives ; to say that 
this ‘great crowd was at that 
very moment holding bursting 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 137 


joys or silent tragedies ; that a 
look, a sign, an absence, perhaps 
a prayer, were deciding the issue ; 
that what was but a second ago 
a rainbow glory was now gone, 
and that some other was mount- 
ing full and radiant in the light- 
ness of hope, to break against 
the ceiling in its turn. As I 
sat thinking these thoughts, and 
watching the crowd ebb and 
flow, came the hour of high 
mass, and with it, what startled 
me like an unearthly presence, 
my beautiful Venetian stood 
before me. She was looking 
down, her hands clasping her 
prayer-book. An old black dress 
— I could see how shabby it 
was — flowed in majestic folds 
around her, and over her head 
was thrown a rusty lace veil ; 
but on that head all the glory 
of San Marco seemed to shine, 
and to cast back a glory from 
her dazzling hair. 

So beautiful, so unconscious, 
and so proud withal, I have 
never seen a woman look. She 


138 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


wore her old black stuff as 
royally as though it were velvet 
and ermine, and a crown seemed 
to hover above her brow, held 
so high, with eyes half drooped — 
for what was the surging crowd 
to her ? Close behind her stood 
an old man, very feeble, forlorn, 
and 'more than shabby, in an 
antiquated gondoliere livery. 
It looked as if it would fall 
to dust at a breath ; indeed, it 
seemed to have been long buried 
away in some moldy place — a 
vault, perhaps — while its original 
wearer had turned to dust and 
ashes undisturbed within it. On 
the man’s arm was a great brass 
badge such as the gondoliere of 
noble houses wear, bearing a coat 
of arms which proclaimed even 
to one ignorant of heraldry that 
it was a proud one. He seemed 
to take pride in it himself, for it 
was as burnished as the beak of 
a gondola on a festival day, in 
curious contrast with his ruinous 
appearance and spectral unreality. 
Notwithstanding his feebleness, 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. I39 


he was evidently the girl's only 
protector, and soon darted with 
trembling agility upon a kneeling- 
chair, scarcely waiting for its 
occupant to rise and cross her- 
self; before he had dragged it 
away and pushed it before his 
young mistress. He fell stiffly 
on his knees behind her, as she 
sank forward upon it and 
buried her face in her hands 
before opening her worn book, 
which appeared to be full of 
devout little leaflets and cut 
paper traceries with pictures in 
their midst. 

I noticed then how transparent 
were those hands. Aristocratic 
and innately noble in form and 
movement, they had yet a weary 
look of work about them. She 
wore old-fashioned netted mittens 
which did not hide them, and 
I could see that their hollows 
were faintly bluish, and tliat 
their articulations were marked 
by the delicate cameo-tinted de- 
pressions. She seemed as un- 
conscious of them as of her face. 


140 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


as queens might be with whom 
all was sacred from remark. 
When she opened her book 
she did not look into it much, 
but raised her eyes to the golden 
ceiling, and there let them vaguely 
dwell on the mosaic saints, as 
though she saw beyond them. 
Occasionally she would drop her 
glance to the altar and dreamily 
turn over a page. As she did 
so, one of her little pictures 
fluttered from between the leaves 
and fell at my feet, and as I 
sprang from my shelter to raise 
it, our eyes met. I had never 
thought of her blushing, and 
now the marvelous, instan- 
taneous rosy red surprised me 
so utterly that I gazed at her in 
enchanted astonishment. How 
divinely, unapproachably exquis- 
ite this sunrise was ! 

People who have exchanged 
even a passing look can never 
again quite be strangers to each 
other. Her gaze seemed to 
betray startled recognition ; mine 
was full of artistic delight, and 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. I4I 

a sudden sense of acquaintance 
with this beautiful woman came 
over me. I tried to look away, 
but I could not. 

I felt that i had kissed that 
hair, held close those tender hands, 
laid my lips upon the white eye- 
lids, and mingled my breath with 
hers. There was even a little 
shadow in that stately throat, 
where it seemed to me that I had 
often pressed my brow ! No long- 
ing oppressed me in this hallu- 
cination. All had been mine, was 
mine, and would be mine always. 
Yes, we would go out into the 
sunlight together when the mass 
was over, and in the gondola 
she would lay her head softly 
upon my shoulder, and we would 
not need to speak. Then at 
home she would put off her poor 
festival dress, and lean with me 
from the window watching the 
sun’s rays playing through the 
water and the pigeons circling 
above. Not even then would we 
speak ; for what could we say to 
each other that had not been said 


142 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


long ago ? The golden day would 
sink and still find us hand in 
hand, unquestioning, content, and 
confident, with the utter trust of 
long companionship. Could she, 
too, be dreaming this strange 
dream ? 

She was gazing at the saints 
no longer, and her eyes were 
resting, not on mine but deep 
within them, full of old memories 
and sweet future joys, and I gazed 
back and shared them with her. 
At last the mass was over, and 
she rose and broke the spell. 
Thank God that she did ! I 
watched her as she passed slowly 
down through the dusky glow, 
followed by her strange old re- 
tainer, and I sat transfixed, 
fearing lest I should do some 
violent and unseemly thing if I 
moved. We all know such 
moods, when everything around 
us looks new and incongruous. 
Our most accustomed movements 
seem to us as though made for 
the first time, and we almost 
fear to fall, like a child who 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 143 


is but just learning to walk 
alone. 

An abyss is beneath us, the 
walls are closing around us, and 
if we stretch out our hands we 
feel that they belong to another 
and must touch some object far 
beyond our reach. I dragged 
myself from my chair as if I 
were uprooting a rock, but some 
hidden impulse forced me to 
move, and helped me to make 
my way through the crowd, and 
out of the church. The same 
s imperious force carried me to 
the landing-place at the Piazzetta, 

I and then I knew that it was she 
^ that had drawn me. She was 
just stepping into a covered 
gondola, and I watched her 
backing into the hearse-like thing, 
not as we foreigners awkwardly 
try to do, but disappearing into 
darkness with the stateliness of 
a queen, bowing a gracious 
acknowledgment to her people’s 
homage. 

The shadowy old man took the 
oar, and feebly pushed off amid 


144 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


the sarcasms of some sturdy young 
gondolieri who stood waiting for 
customers, and the black gondola 
moved away over the glittering 
water. I might easily have called 
one of the idle gondolieri and 
followed her. But there are 
things one cannot do. I had no 
curiosity, for I knew where she 
lived ; and for the mere pleasure 
of floating in the wake of her 
beautiful presence I could not 
iusult her by pursuing her. 

I waited until I had seen the 
gondola turn into a side canal 
before taking one myself, having 
given my own a holiday in honor 
of the high festival, and now I 
simply said to the man, “ Take me 
for a turn.” He had very likely 
been watching me, and fancied 
a hidden meaning' in my order — 
for every Venetian is over-subtle 
—or did he only want to escape 
from the fierce midday sun ? I 
let him take his way, and closed 
my ey^s to the hot glare which 
pierced even through the thick 
linen curtains, for I had chosen 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. I45 


my conveyance with an awning. 
I could feel that the man was 
rowing fast, and I thought it was 
the usual story — namely, that he 
was trying to outstrip some 
familiar enemy of his. I felt, 
too, that he was rapidly dashing 
around corners, and heard the 
warning cry of “ O’ stalli,” heard 
the ripple and swish of a boat 
before me, and waited for the 
moment to come when the rivals 
shall pause upon their oars to 
abuse each other, and had already 
steeled my ears to their furious 
adjectives, when my boat stopped 
suddenly. No wordy storm fol- 
lowed, and I looked from under 
the curtain. He had brought me 
up to the door of the Palazzo, 
and now was waiting, whether 
simply to let the old man land 
his young mistress, or to show 
me how clever he could be in 
what seemed to him a love affair, 
I do not know. All I know is 
that, as I drew aside the awning, 
our eyes met again. She had 
just put her foot on the step, her 


146 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


hand laid royally on the trem- 
bling arm of her shabby retainer, 
held out as a proper gondoliere 
should present it, with bent 
elbow, the ancient badge gleam- 
ing in the sun. She turned to 
gather up the train of her old- 
fashioned gown, and if she under- 
stood my eyes aright she must 
have read in them shame and 
appeal at seeming to have tracked 
her like the vulgarest of admirers. 
She was gone in a moment, and 
the old man proceeded to row 
slowly off, turning to look at me 
curiously. His gondola was cer- 
tainly not his own ; it was too 
new and fine for that. Probably 
some one had lent it him — for 
Italians have always a friend in 
the background — and now he 
was going to restore it to its 
owner, and hobble back on foot 
by the side alleys. He seemed, 
however, to have made up his 
mind that there was no hurry, 
and drifted along, contenting 
himself with shoving his oar 
against a wall, or paddling in the 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 147 


shallow water, persistently glanc- 
ing back at me, almost as though 
he would have spoken to me had 
I come near enough. My gon- 
doliere in the mean time was 
making odd maneuvers, turning 
round and going a little way, 
then, with a push of his oar, 
darting back again, to again 
remain motionless. At last I 
was irritated into asking him 
what the devil he was about, at 
which he only shrugged his 
shoulders, and rowed round a 
corner, bringing me by cross 
cuts into the Grand Canal again. 

I told him to take me back to 
the Piazzetta. An irresistible 
longing seized me — a longing to 
put my foot upon the steps where 
hers had rested — and I yielded 
to it. 

That night, when I found my- 
self alone in my bare chamber, a 
strange spirit fell upon me. The 
moon was coldly shining on, 
making the water below ripple 
in silvery fretting against the 
high whitewashed ceiling. I 


148 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


looked about me. There was a 
comfort in the very barrenness of 
the place. Barring my pictures, 
my belongings might have been 
carried away on my back. The 
complications of years seemed 
suddenly to fall from me. It was 
so simple to be one’s self alone, 
something different from what 
I had been hitherto — myself at 
last ! 

I took the candle and walked 
to the tarnished glass as in a 
dream, and stood looking at my 
face there. It looked back at 
me with the eyes of a stranger. 
I had never been fond of my own 
reflection, but now I examined it 
critically, and said to myself, 
with an artist’s impersonal in- 
stinct, that it resembled a bad 
copy of some Giorgione — the 
same dark eyes, the same eager 
unsatisfied look upon the strongly 
marked features, the same melan- 
choly yet violent mouth. Fas- 
cinated, I gazed on at this fa- 
miliar face and questioned those 
eyes which were not mine. 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 149 


A weird and frightful feeling it 
gave me, but I could not look 
away. Would the man in the 
glass speak? Speak and solve 
the horrible riddle? Who was 
he? Was I going mad? I was 
mad already ! Those eyes would 
presently roll in frenzy, and 
strange words would break from 
those lips. My fearful dream of 
the morning — fearful because so 
sweet — had been but the preface 
to this hideous thing I Those 
sensations were no part of my- 
self, ^and scarcely were they over 
but I had forgotten them. They 
found no echo in me and died 
away like a musical tone when 
the hand has quitted the keys. 
When I had left the Piazzetta, 
I had borne about with me all 
day a weary, cheerless feeling, 
and a dull pain somewhere ; but 
that vision in San Marco had 
not returned to my mind. That 
I should not have felt humiliated 
and dishonored in my own sight 
by that moment of mad attrac- 
tion was only another proof that 


150 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


something in my brain had sunk 
into a stupor, to wake shrieking, 
perhaps, when I felt most tran- 
quil. I had often heard of such 
things. What would be done 
with me? Would my wife, poor 
thing, come to find me in a mad- 
house, raving of another woman ? 
Would she ever find me at all ? 
What would become of my pict- 
ures ? Was there an English 
Consul? And would he be called 
in ? These and a thousand other 
fevered thoughts darted like 
lightning through my darkened 
mind. Good God ! What alien 
things might my wife hear from 
me ! Should I ever be able to 
say, “I am innocent?” How 
did the words sound ? My stiff 
lips made a fearful effort to utter 
them, and, as I saw those other 
lips move, an awful horror came 
over me. What would they say ? 
What cry of condemnation would 
burst from them ? But I never 
heard it. 

Something strange had hap- 
pened. I was lying on the floor 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 151 


in the dark with a wounded fist, 
from which I could feel the 
warm blood flowing down my 
sleeve. The sharp, throbbing 
pain brought me to my senses, 
and I staggered to my feet and 
groped for a light. My candle 
had rolled away somewhere, but 
I found the matches and struck 
one. My first look was at the 
mirror. It lay in splinters at my 
feet. Those terrible lips mute 
forever. In my agony I must 
have struck at them with my 
clenched fist. It was burning 
painfully; but what did that 
matter ? My mind was clear 
again, and my senses were mine 
still. 

An Englishman never suc- 
cumbs to a disastrous moral 
mood without asking himself if 
it be not a physical one after all, 
and as I bathed my wounded 
hand I decided that the hot sun, 
no breakfast, and a long day of 
fasting — for I had forgotten to 
eat — must answer for this. They 
did answer for it perfectly, and 


152 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


I was satisfied. I bound up my 
cuts as well as I could with my 
other hand. The bleeding had 
stopped, and the damage was 
not so bad as I had thought. 
The positive breaking of the 
glass must have been done by my 
seal ring, whose bearings were 
riven across. When my gon- 
doliere came for orders in the 
morning, he stared at my ban- 
daged hand and haggard face, 
for I had not slept, and I could 
read in his eyes that the night 
had left its traces. A bath in 
Lido waves would efface them 
perhaps, and thither I told him 
to row me. It was early, and 
a Sunday, and the water was 
crowded with fishing boats whose 
owners had come for mass. The 
painted sails, from deep orange 
and olive to palest citron yellow, 
stood out gloriously from the 
clear morning sky, and lay mir- 
rored on the gently heaving 
water, in now broken, now 
blending sheets of magnificent 
color. 


A SHADOW Olsr A WAVE. 153 


A pleasantly convalescent feel- 
ing stole over me, together with 
the complacent interest we feel 
in small things, on returning to 
life again after a long illness: 
and the painted cocks, rising 
suns, and protecting saints on 
the tinted sails pleased me as 
freshly as though I had never 
seen them before. A plunge in 
the sea did the rest, and restored 
me to my daily self. My inex- 
plicable mood of the previous 
day hung like a black curtain in 
the background, but it troubled 
me no longer, and I would not 
try to lift it. As I landed at San 
Moise for my breakfast, feeling 
a convalescent’s hunger within 
me, I met Weston, and he joined 
me in the meal. I was just in 
the disposition which makes one 
willhig to share anybody’s com- 
pany, and we sat and talked 
amicably and long over our 
coffee. He was full of a picture 
which he wanted to show me. 
What was it ? Where was it ? 
I asked. But to such questions 


154 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


the amateur antiquary never 
answers, and I put them me- 
chanically. I hate being taken 
to see unknown gems, unartistic 
as it may sound. They are al- 
ways failures, or at the best they 
turn out to but tolerable copies. 

I’ll only tell you this ! ” said 
he. “ The Accademia might be 
thankful to get the thing on 
its walls ! ” And he went on, 
“ You don’t want to go — I can 
see that ; but you’ll be grateful 
to me ! ” As there was no escape, 
I was not loath to have done with 
the matter, and agreed to his 
proposal that he should fetch me 
on foot at four o’clock that after- 
noon. It was better to get the 
thing over rather than break into 
a day of work. Moreover, I felt 
that, left alone with myself, I 
might be tempted to stir’ the 
black curtain, and I feared to 
disturb its folds. So at four 
o’clock came Weston . to my 
lodgings, the position of which I 
had described accurately enough 
to prevent him from missing his 


A SHADOW ON A WAVK. 155 


way. He looked around him 
seemingly rather surprised that 
I should prefer to live in such 
a place, for he himself was 
boarding at a “ pension,” which 
would have been a hell to me. 
When he had inspected my 
simple bedchamber, he said, 
“ Only one room ? ” and I weakly 
answered that I had a sort of 
studio beyond. “ Let’s see it,” 
said he. “ One moment — ^just 
to turn some bad sketches to 
the wall,” I said, and quickly 
concealed my attempt at the 
portrait and my studies of the 
old Palazzo. They were mine 
only, and I could not endure to 
have indifferent eyes upon them. 
I did not stop to think : my in- 
stinct bade me hide them. When 
I let him in, he seemed satisfied 
with, my industry at least, and 
was kind enough to praise a good 
deal. I am not a bad painter, and 
know that some of his commenda- 
tion was not unmerited. Glad 
to see you don’t glaze over or 
mix your colors,” said he. “It 


156 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


makes nasty, dirty work ! Well, 
I envy you,” he continued, sitting 
astride of a chair, his chin upon 
his folded arms. I don’t care 
to envy people, but I don’t mind 
saying if I do. That’s a bit of 
work I don’t suppose I shall get 
to in the next ten years — if I 
ever do at all. It’s thorough ; 
it’s clever, too ! By Jove, it’s 
capital ! ” It did not consist of 
much more than a couple of those 
“slimy poles” which my wife 
judged so contemptuously, a bit 
of water, with the sun’s rays 
darting deep down into it, a 
rugged end of wall, and an azure 
stretch of sea and sky beyond — 
lonely, sun-steeped, suggestive. 
Away from the original it pleased 
me pretty well, though I re- 
member my sense of despair 
when I put up my colors, fueling 
that it was but a wretched daub 
after all, and that any further 
touches would only make it a 
worse one. 

“ Well, if you want to see 
painting, come along,” said Wes- 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 157 


ton, getting up and stretching 
himself ; “ if we don’t go now we 
shall have a bad light. I told 
the old fellow we were coming 
at four or thereabouts.” 

Who “ the old fellow ” might 
be did not excite my curiosity, 
and I let Weston, who was proud 
of his knowledge of the compli- 
.cated streets, lead me as he 
would. 

“ I have no idea where we 
are,” I said at last. 

“ Ah, that’s part of the charm ! ” 
he answered. You know the 
fellows in the ‘Arabian Nights’ 
never knew how they got to the 
enchanted cave or how to find it 
' again.” He stopped at a grand 
looking old portal. “ Dear me ! ” 

I he exclaimed, “ I quite forgot to 
tell you that the picture is not 
for sale ; so for Heaven’s sake 
take care what you say ! The 
man is as poor as a rat, but he 
I wont part with it, and my being 
I allowed to bring you is a special 
favor. I came to know him 
at our pension. He gives some 


158 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


German girls Italian lessons 
there — reads Dante with them 
for about one centime the hour ! 
Somehow we put our heads to- 
gether over a wretched daub in 
the salon while his pupils were 
keeping him waiting one day, 
and he couldn’t hold his tongue 
about his gem, and carried me, 
when he had done with Dante, 
straight off to worship it.” 

“ I can’t say he said a word 
too much ; I was down on my 
knees to it ! ” 

“ Oh, I daresay it’s clever ! ” I 
said, wearily. 

‘‘Clever?” he echoed, from 
the flight above me. “Clever? 
you don’t call the sun clever, do 
you? Just wait till you’ve seen 
it!” 

Below, as in all Venetian 
houses, we had entered a hall 
with a door upon the water at 
the opposite end, and from this 
hall the great forlorn staircase, 
unswept and with broken steps, 
led us upward until we reached 
a broad landing. “ Here we 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 159 


are ! ” said Weston, pulling a 
ragged string which served as a 
bell-rope. A feeble bell tinkled 
and bumped against the door 
inside, and at last we heard a 
heavy halting step within. 

“ He is a Conte, so take care 
to address him properly,” whis- 
pered Weston, as the door opened 
slowly after some fumbling at the 
lock. ‘‘All right!” I nodded, 
and we entered. Before me stood 
the old servant, his badge upon 
his sleeve. 

Where was I ? Was I there — 
in the Palazzo? I almost reeled 
with the shock. I should see 
her ! I forgot the black curtain 
— forgot the hour in San Marco 
— I forgot all but that this man 
must bring me to her. She lived 
here — of course I Then it flashed 
upon me that it was no wonder 
I did not recognize the place. 
We had entered from the street, 
and I had never seen the interior 
of the house. How could I have 
known it from its land side ? 
My whole being leaped forward 


l6o A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


while Weston half-pityingly mur- 
mured, “Queer place — isn’t it?” 
He could not know that to me 
it was Paradise ! 

The old man hobbled on before 
us, straightening his bowed back 
and trying to hold up his gray 
head gallantly as we followed 
him through the bare, cold rooms, 
where the stagnant atmosphere 
of loneliness was so chilly in 
contrast to the warm outer air. 
He paused before a closed door, 
and my heart beat violently. 

With much ceremony he ush- 
ered us in, and from the end of 
the long room a familiar figure 
advanced to meet us — familiar, but 
that the old dressing-gown had 
been exchanged for a suit of 
black, antiquated in cut and 
whitened at the seams, and that 
the listless face 1 had so often 
seen at the window looked 
startled and eager as the old 
servant made a rapid sign, in- 
comprehensible to me, which 
brought a faint tinge of heclic 
into his master’s shrunken cheeks. 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. l6l 


It deepened as he ceremoniously- 
extended his hand in welcome, 
and I fancied that the thin 
fingers trembled in mine. He 
had a penetrating glance, which 
from a distance I had not fully 
realized in the pale, lusterless 
eyes ; and now he directed it 
persistently upon me. He must 
surely have recognized me, but 
of this he gave no sign. Rather 
he seemed determined to ignore 
my identity in a stagey sort of way, 
as though he and I knew more 
of each other than appeared. It 
seemed to me that we were like 
two diplomats playing at making 
believe, and it struck me as being 
so much of a piece with the 
superfluous Venetian wiliness 
that I humored him in his 
little comedy for the sake of the 
good acting. Weston had intro- 
duced me in flowery “ Ollendorf ” 
Italian, as a “ celebrated English 
painter,” and the old gentleman 
— for he certainly was one — pre- 
tended to be surprised, and made 
a polite remark that I was very 


i 62 a shadow on a wave. 


young to have already attained 
fame, congratulating me upon 
it and asking me in a paternal 
way if I had made any studies 
in Venice. I remembered the 
hours he had passed in watching 
me from his window and an- 
swered, reddening, that I had 
attempted some. 

And may I ask what points 
of view in our city you have so 
honored ? ” 

I answered this astounding 
question by giving him some 
names of places at random, 
which he accepted with the air 
of playing at money with a child. 
Had the Signore been here long? 
‘•'No, not long, and time in 
Venice seemed always too short 
at which he made an accom- 
plished bow and waved his thin, 
elegant hands deprecatingly, as 
if to say, “You are too good, 
but I accept it in the name of 
Venice!” Weston was getting 
fidgety, and evidently gauged 
the waning light, for he inter- 
rupted us in a flow of politeness 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 163 


by remarking to the Conte that 
his treasure would not be seen 
to advantage later. “ Ah, yes, 
the picture ! ” he answered, ab- 
sently, as though it were a mere 
accessory to our visit, and rose 
to lead the way. It took us 
through more bare rooms, with 
rough boards in the place of 
windows, and for furniture a few 
decrepit gilded chairs, of which 
the stuffs had lost all resem- 
blance of color and texture. 

‘‘You will pardon me. Sig- 
nore ! said he, turning round 
grandly, “ it is so hot in summer 
that we prefer to have our apart- 
ments not too full.” Hot ? There 
was the chill of the grave upon 
them ! At last we came to a 
little room hung with faded red 
damask, and he stood aside, in- 
viting us to pass. 

Opposite the door, and glowing 
in the rich afternoon light, hung 
the picture. Weston was right. 
It was indeed one to kneel to. 
Not that the subject was a sacred 
one — for it was only a portrait — 


164 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


but one so thrillingly living as 
I have never seen. The style 
was utterly unlike that of any 
known painter ; but could this 
one be named he would rank 
with the greatest. From a rather 
small canvas looked out the brill- 
iantly youthful face of a young 
cavalier with fair flowing love- 
locks falling over his broad lace 
collar. A somewhat darker 
mustache shaded softly the 
smiling, breathing mouth, whose 
lips were daring and amorous, 
and fresh as spring in their en- 
chanting bloom. Under dark, 
finely-penciled eyebrows, auda- 
cious as the lips, and yet thought- 
ful, a pair of eyes like sapphire 
stars shone out fully and con- 
fidently upon the beholder — eyes 
so dazzling, deeply blue, and 
so radiant with youth and happi- 
ness, that one closed one’s own 
as though one had gazed at the 
sun. A soft blaze of triumphant 
beauty seemed to emanate from 
the picture — so indescribably 
beautiful and joyous was this 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 165 


unknown face. I stood entranced, 
forgetful of all but the glorious 
light in those dark blue eyes, 
forgetting even to wonder how 
this marvelous effect had been at- 
tained. 

“ I see you appreciate it,” said 
the Conte. 

I stammered something, but 
my face must have spoken for me 
better than my tongue, for he 
said, ‘‘ Come to see it whenever 
you like ! You will be welcome ! ” 
At that moment a little door, 
concealed in the damask panel- 
ing, opened very cautiously. The 
Conte stood with his back to it, 
and did not see what I saw, 
though that was little enough. 
A white arm was leaning against 
the door-post, and resting against 
the hand, half turned aside, a 
coil of golden hair left a little 
alabaster ear free to listen to 
what was going on within. The 
other hand held the latch, as if to 
draw it at a moment’s notice. 
The Conte changed his position, 
and the door softly closed. When 


l66 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


we had followed him back to the 
dreary room which was evidently 
his place of abode, an odd, old- 
fashioned collation stood upon 
the table. Curiously formed de- 
canters of gilded glass filled with 
some deep red and sickly green 
liquid, funnel-shaped glasses, also 
gilded, on fine twisted stems, and 
fruit in a dish of common white 
ware, were grouped around a 
little painted saucer containing a 
handful of quaint-looking sugar- 
plums of the kind the nuns make 
in their convents. 

The Conte pressed us to par- 
take of this queer little feast, and 
we having signified that either red 
or green would be a favor from 
his hand, he proceeded to fill the 
delicate glasses, and we sat sip- 
ping the fiery cloying stuff and 
bowing ceremoniously to each 
other ; he with the air of enter- 
taining at a princely table, and 
indeed his grand manner cast 
quite a luster of opulence about 
him. It was growing late, and 
we rose to take leave, with 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 167 


thanks which did not need to be 
exaggerated to please him, for 
they were those of artists who 
had looked upon a masterpiece. 
He accompanied us through two 
or three of the desolate rooms 
and then left us, after more 
ceremonies, to the old servant 
who stood waiting at the door. 
He scrutinized my face and 
sidled up to me, letting Weston 
go out first, so that I fancied he 
was going to speak to me. What 
he could have had to say. Heaven 
knows ! I took a five-franc piece 
from my vest pocket, and pressed 
it discreetly into his hand ; then 
he, bowing and astonished, 
whispered, “You may trust me.” 

Why I was to trust him, and 
what was to be intrusted, was a 
mystery I have never understood. 

I can only explain it by suppos- 
ing that his old brains were a 
little crazed, and that he took me 
for another person. 

“ What do you think of the 
picture nozv ? ” broke out Weston 
when the door had closed behind 


l68 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


US. “Wasn’t I right about it?” 
“ I can never thank you enough 
for having taken me there,” I 
answered. “ Ah, I knew you’d 
say so ! ” said he, and we fell to 
discussing the wonderful paint- 
ing. I hate to talk of what I 
admire ; I hate to anatomize 
their beauty, and it requires an 
effort most distasteful to me to 
express an impression when re- 
quired to do so. But this effort 
I made for Weston’s sake as well 
as for my own, not wishing to be 
thought indifferent, and my com- 
panion was satisfied. He could 
not know that another was haunt- 
ing me — that my pulses were 
beating, that my brain was 
burning, and that my hand lay 
upon the black curtain with a 
fearful temptation to tear it aside, 
and to stand face to face with 
what was beyond. 

“ The old fellow is a real 
count,” he went on, “and his 
ancestors had Doges among 
them. He is the last of the 
Barbarigos. He ran down hill 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. l6g 


like all those extravagant old 
Venetians. Splendid fools they 
were, too, and spent more and 
got poorer with every generation. 
The whole palace belonged to 
them once ; now it’s all sold — all 
but this one floor, which the old 
man wont give up. People here 
have a way of selling their houses 
by bits. He and his old ghost, 
the servant, must starve there 
pretty badly! There is a daugh- 
ter, too, somewhere ; but whether 
she lives there or has gone into 
a convent, I don’t know. I saw 
no signs of her.” 

“ How did you find all this 
out?” I asked, for the sake of 
saying something. 

“ Oh, my landlady, who keeps 
\\\^ pension, knows all about them ; 
she is a Venetian herself. He 
wont show himself among his 
countrymen — too proud for that ; 
but he creeps about giving a 
lesson or two to the foreigners. 
I know I’d give him a thousand 
pounds for that picture if I had 
the money ! He’s a fool not to 


170 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


sell it for bread and butter!” I 
turned and looked up at the 
windows instinctively, though the 
Conte could not have understood 
our talk even had he overheard 
it. Above me leaned out his 
daughter, quickly disappearing 
at my upward glance, Weston 
walked unconscious by my side. 
But for me he was a thousand 
miles away. 




HAT happens after a cer- 
tain point or wish has 
been attained, or some- 
thing unexpected in the 
way of joy or sorrow has 
r befallen us? Generally nothing. 
pH The outer world remains the 
I same, whether we smile or weep, 

■ dream or do ; we fit back into 
our grooves as I did into mine,* 
trying to be too busy to find time 
i to ask myself what curious power 
^ had been at work in me for the 
1 last few days. I repeated to my- 
self that the strange morning in 
I San Marco had been the natural 
p result of the heat and no break- 
fast, and this served to explain 
the rest. 



171 


r 


172 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


As we are not responsible for 
the madness done in dreams, 
neither was I to be accountable 
for this flight out of my true 
nature. Would it happen again ? 
and how could I guard against 
it ? Best, certainly, by not return- 
ing to the Palazzo Barbarigo, 
though the Conte had told me 
I would be welcome. And yet 
this seemed throwing away a joy 
given me with open hands by 
heaven itself. It would be almost 
sinful not to study the picture! 

We all know what we do in 
our dreams. We tempt other 
men’s wives who are sacred or 
indifferent to our waking eyes, 
we kiss lips we have never longed 
for, look on quietly at the death 
agonies of our nearest ones, and 
bury our life’s love with a curious 
consciousness that it is not dead 
after all. We visit places where 
we have never been, and weep 
over old associations which never 
existed ; fight enemies whom we 
forget by daylight, or get mortal 
wounds from the hands dearest 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 1 73 


to US. These creatures are not 
ourselves. We do not say we 
will not sleep for fear of commit- 
ting phantom deadly sins, but 
lay our heads on our pillows, 
pleasantly wondering what we 
shall do in dreamland, enjoying 
the prospect of the entertainment 
before us, and the waking to 
find that we are innocent, and 
have the exciting experience 
without damage to our souls. 
Is not the thrill of recollection — 
the morning consentment to the 
night’s wild doings as sinful as 
any of our imaginary crimes ? Let 
the clergymen settle it between 
them ! 

I once knew a man who for 
years was pursued by a horrible 
dream, and always waked to de- 
spise himself. In this dream he 
and his brother were condemned 
to death for some unknown mis- 
deed, and at the last moment 
there always came a pardon for 
one of them. For which should 
it be ? My friend invariably said, 
“Go you and die! — You never 


174 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


loved life as I do ! — you have less 
to lose ! ” and waked horrified at 
his choice. 

The dream returned more and 
more frequently, and he felt a 
burden upon his soul as though 
he were indeed his brother’s 
murderer. 

Once within the dream no 
struggle of conscience could help 
him — he was in it and could not 
escape from its thrall. At last 
he forced himself to fall asleep 
with the firm resolution that he 
would not yield to it, should the 
terrible temptation assail him, 
and he awoke delivered. His 
soul had fought and conquered, 
and as he opened his eyes he was 
on the way to the scaffold by his 
own choice, victor at last ! The 
dream never returned, though for 
fifteen years it had so often 
tortured him ; and now, having 
trodden it under foot, he knows 
that he is safe from it forever, 
and no longer dreads the night 
and sleep. Could I not, as he, 
arm my soul beforehand for the 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 1 75 


fight? If I do not conquer this 
waking dream it should not be 
my fault, I told myself. Still, it 
was a pity about the picture. It 
could do me no harm to go there 
but a few times again. Was I, 
a strong man, to turn from 
danger? In this way I reasoned 
with myself, and administered 
weak and wavering counsel to 
the creature within us who is 
always so pleased to receive it. 
I cannot tell why I am writing 
all this, sitting in my lonely study 
with the roar of London around 
me — unless it is that I must 
speak to some one. You who 
read will perhaps understand me, 
though I have not understood 
myself ; but you will never know 
my name. Presently my wife — 
pretty creature — will come home 
from her ball, full of reflected 
brightness and beaming with re- 
membered compliments, and Ven- 
ice will sink into the waves again 
— so let me write on. I struggled 
in so far that I did not go back 
to the picture, beautiful and pre- 


176 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


cious though it was. But I went 
several times to see Weston, 
hoping to meet the Count Bar- 
barigo somewhere about the 
place, and that perhaps he would 
press me to come with him and 
have another look at his treasure 
and then — but I never saw 
him. But perhaps his German 
pupils had gone away or had 
tired of Dante. I had learned by 
this time to manage my gondola 
for myself, and used to go out 
into the warm still night, and 
push away into the dark canals 
or rest under the mighty span of 
the Rialto, alone with the waves 
and the stars. Venice was mine 
then. I folded her in my arms 
and laid my head upon her 
marble breast and was still. 
The enchantment of those hours 
cannot be spoken, but it will 
never leave me. Alone, freed for 
the moment from the present, 
with the mystery and beauty all 
my own, I went whither I would 
as a disembodied soul might 
wander through strange worlds. 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 177 


I was myself during those 
solitary hours of consolation. 
Had they but remained such ! 

One night when I had gone 
early to rest, weary with my day’s 
work, I awoke to see the brilliant 
late moon shining in at my un- 
curtained window. I heard a 
neighboring church clock strike 
twelve, and, as though there 
were an irresistible charm in the 
witches’ hour, I rose and dressed 
myself quickly and stole down 
the silent stairs to my gondola, 
which was fastened to a ring at 
the water door. I got into it as 
in a dream, and in a dream I 
pushed . it onward. Whither 
was I going ? A voice within 
me said, “ Do not ask ! ” and I 
glided on past inky black portals 
and murky corners, my oar dip- 
ping stars from the dark water, 
and its sound seeming almost 
sacrilege in that wave murmuring 
stillness. At last I came to a 
broader space, where the moon 
made long silver tracks before 
me — paths of light, which, were 


178 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


I to follow them, I thought must 
lead me out into a calmer world 
forever. 

I have always loved the moon- 
light, and have often pictured to 
myself another sphere where we 
should look again upon the faces 
of those we love shining in its 
blue radiance, and where all 
would be as peaceful as its light ; 
no passions, no laughter or wild 
rejoicings — no tears and no long- 
ings — only a twilight of content, 
with nothing more to lose. 

What infinite rest comes with 
the thought ! 

The silver paths led me indeed 
to another world, but not a calmer 
one. My gondola lay before the 
Palazzo Barbarigo. Its time- 
worn front looked white and fair 
in the moonlight wdiich, like death, 
lays its hand on rugged faces 
and smoothes the years and the 
wrinkles. 

I lay back in the boat, gazing 
upward. 

Fate had brought me there — or 
at least I chose to call it so — and 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 1 79 


why should I turn away? I must 
wait for something to happen. 

This was but the prelude to 
strange music, and soon unearthly 
chords would strike the air. 

A window opened. Had she 
heard the plash of my oar, and 
was she anxious to see who was 
passing the lonely canal at that 
late hour, or had the same impel- 
ling power drawn her from her 
sleep ? She came — a white figure 
— and leaned out. I could see 
her clearly in the almost dazzling 
moonbeams. They fell upon her 
face, her hastily caught-up shining 
hair, her marble hands ! She 
would see me too — must see me ! 
An agony of shuddering, guilty 
hope possessed me, and I could 
not — would not move. 

At last I heard a faint cry, 
and her half-bared arms were 
stretched out to me — white and 
tender as the moonlight itself. I 
felt them around me — so did dis- 
tance vanish between us! and mine 
were raised to meet them. Then 
every pulse seemed stopping, and 


I So A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


a shiver ran through my raging 
blood. She was gone ! But it 
was not yet over — I must wait. 
She could not leave me so ! 
Hours and minutes might have 
gone by — I could only count time 
by the slow throb of my heart. 
Suddenly it gave a fearful bound 
and stood still ; for the heavy door 
slowly opened and she was stand- 
ing on the marble steps — those 
arms so near ! 

I have read in novels that in 
such moments a prayer rises to 
the lips of the tempted one. It 
is not true. I did not wish to 
pray ! I ivoiild not ! I sprang 
from my boat, and for one un- 
speakable moment I held her to 
me. 

Our eyes fed upon each other, 
our lips met as softly as the petals 
of a flower fold and close at sun- 
set — then I broke from her in 
wild horror while she gazed at me 
bewildered as one who is startled 
from a dream. I see her face 
now — I shall see it always. How 
I got into my gondola and how I 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. l8l 


reached home I cannot remember. 
I suppose the deftness of sleep- 
walkers protected me. I perfectly 
recollect, however, fastening the 
boat to the wall, groping carefully 
up my stairs, and laying myself 
down upon my bed, holding 
thought at arm’s length until sleep 
fell upon me — a long sleep, such 
as we are told that only the 
innocent enjoy. I forget what I 
did the next day ; I only remem- 
ber that I did not go out into the 
daylight. I felt a mark of infamy 
upon my brow, and that it must 
be visible to all — and yet, what 
crime had I committed ? 

But one kiss — ah ! so short ! 
A numb feeling that I could not 
live with such a self arose within 
me. I must rebuild my concep- 
tion of an honorable man and 
make myself at home in it, else I 
could not play the part, and it 
must be played to the end ! I 
had struck a rock, my ship was 
.shattered, and I was struggling 
through the waves to reach a frag- 
ment of the tossing wreck. 


182 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


Suddenly I heard steps upon 
the stairs — a light tread and a 
heavy one. The door opened, 
and my wife appeared upon the 
threshold, rustling and radiant 
with the satisfaction of a little 
dramatic surprise. 

“Well, dear! Here I am at 
last! I knew I should astonish 
you, and I have been enjoying it 
all the way from Paris!” She 
went through a little ceremonial 
of embracing, and turned to the 
mirror — a new one since that 
fearful night. 

“Oh dear! What a fright I 
am! Traveling does take it 
out of one so ! ” She smoothed 
down her ruffled hair, and shook 
out her skirts, then came and 
took me by the hand. 

“ I want to have a good look 
at you,” she said, drawing me to 
the light. “ Why, you’re look- 
ing wretchedly, dear boy ! What 
have you been doing with your- 
self. Eating something bad for 
you, and pining for a pretty 
Venetian — of course! Why don’t 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 183 


you say you’ve been pining for 
me? Do you know living in 
such a place is enough to make 
anybody ill ! I thought I should 
never get up all those stairs alive 
— and I’m so awfully hungry ! 
We’ll leave my things here — just 
pay the man, dear, and get rid of 
him ! and then you must take me 
to dine somewhere. We can go to 
one of the hotels — it’s just the 
hour for the table d'hote — and then 
we will coine back and pack up 
your things, and perch some- 
where. You can see to your 
pictures to-morrow, you know. 
Nobody will run away with them. 
What a lot!” she exclaimed, 
peering through the open door. 
“You’ve been delightfully indus- 
trious, I must say. If you’ve had 
a flirtation in spite of all that 
work it can’t have been much of 
a one, so I forgive you.” 

It did not help me that she did, 
for she could not know what she 
had to pardon. 

“ We will go to the Grand Bre- 
tagne,” she went on. “ Don’t you 


184 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


remember we went there on our 
honeymoon, and it was so nice 
and bright ? I passed it on my 
way here, and it looked as if there 
might be people. I hope there 
are — they amuse me so. And 
then Tve brought such pretty 
gowns with me ! Don’t frown, 
dear old fellow! They weren’t 
so very expensive ! Paris things 
are lost upon you, but happily 
other people appreciate them.” 

When I saw them later, as she 
day by day displayed them, I did 
my best to praise the dainty 
adornments. It was not difficult 
to say that they were becoming, 
for her prettiness was of the kind 
that takes kindly to modern 
vagaries, and assimilates them. 
In her airy summer frills and 
flounces she looked like a 
charming butterfly just spreading 
its wings for flight, and, like a 
butterfly, she fluttered hither and 
thither. After a few days she 
said : 

“ Do you want me to stay here 
much longer ? ” 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 185 


“ Only to finish a sketch or 
two,” I answered, for I longed to 
be alone with myself, though that 
was bitter company. 

“ Haven’t you sketched all 
Venice by this time ? ” she asked, 
opening her blue eyes in a won- 
dering way which had been much 
admired. 

“ Oh, there are some bits I put 
off to the last ! ” said I. 

“Well, dear! I give you a 
week to paint them in ! I dare 
say I can manage to get on I 
There must be an English cir- 
culating library — oh yes ! Mil li- 
ster, I remember! and then I 
shall sleep a good deal. My 
complexion was dreadfully tried 
at Trouville! That sea air dries 
one up to a mummy! I do wish 
you’d been there ! Of course, the 
women all wore the wildest cos- 
tumes, and they all looked as 
though they had just come from 
the Varietes.’ But they were 
enchanting nevertheless. Now, 
can you fancy a pink dress — 
crushed strawberries — covered 
with frogs?” 


l86 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


“ No,” said I, “I can’t.” 

“ Well, of course — how could 
you? But it was delicious! It 
was caught up by frogs as big as 
my fist — delightful bronzy green 
creatures with ruby eyes ! She 
had a dog-collar of little ones and 
a huge one in her hat, and another 
sat somewhere on her parasol in a 
big bunch of green leaves. She 
was simply adorable ! ” 

“ Who? ” I asked, absently. 
“Oh, I forgot to tell you! It 
was Mile. Bibi of the ‘Vari^tds.’ 
She sang some ‘ couplets ’ at the 
Casino divinely! Just iin tout 
petit pelt polisson~?is they say 
there, but one does not mind that 
in bathing-places. Somehow the 
sea air makes a difference ! I 
wonder where she got her gloves,” 
she added, musingly. “They 
were ideal ! ” 

“ Somebody else got them for 
her, probably,” I said. 

“Oh, of course, cela s entend — 
but you know what I mean ! ” 

We were returning from the 
Lido, and my eyes were fixed 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 187 


upon rosy Venice floating like a 
lotus on the still water. 

“ I declare you don’t care a 
bit about what I’ve been saying,” 
she pouted. 

“ Oh, yes, dear,” I answered, 
“ I heard it all ! ” 

“Well, you heard it, of course — 
but you don’t care! Venice has 
made a perfect bear of you. No 
matter — if you’ve enjoyed it. I’ve 
been enjoying myself, too — but it 
hasn’t made a bear of me ! There, 
don’t be sulky ! We’re never cross, 
you know, and it would be rather 
late to begin — wouldn’t it — after 
we’ve been married so many 
years? Let me see! How long 
have we been married ? ” 

“It will be eight years next 
month,” I answered. 

“ Dear me ! I always have to 
count up. It always seems to 
me nine — anyway,” she con- 
tinued, smilingly; “I think we’ve 
been a model couple, and we will 
go on so 1 ” 

“ Yes, we will go on so,” I said. 
We spent our evenings in the 


l88 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


Piazza, where she liked the 
crowd and the music, and did not 
dislike to see the slim young 
officers lounge past, persistently 
bestowing admiring glances. She 
is fond of plenty of approval ; and 
it is hers by right — for I have told 
you that she is charming — but 
she has never cared for any one’s 
admiration, and she is the most 
unimpeachable of wives. She, 
at least, has nothing to reproach 
herself with. 

My mornings were my own. 
Sometimes I tried to work, but 
I had a strange feeling that heart 
and brain had been taken out of 
my body, leaving me in their stead 
nothing but a certain instinct of 
self-preservation, which made me 
say and do what was expected of 
me — and no one missed them but 
myself. 

At night, when I lay awake, 
wondering if I was going to be ill 
at last, my wife’s quiet breathing 
told me that she had no anxiety, 
though I must have looked 
altered to most eyes ; and early 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 189 


in the morning, while she still 
slept, I went out with my 
sketching things. I think I must 
have often dozed in my gondola, 
for many of those hours are a blank 
to me, and I have very little work 
to show for them. 

My pretty wife frowned a little 
as the fortnight was over and we 
yet lingered ; but she has the 
sweetest temper in the world, and 
smiled at her own impatience — 
for she is graceful and gracious, 
and if she does not understand 
painting, and regards it only as 
the means to an end, it is not her 
fault. Heaven made her so — 
and a prettier object it certainly 
could not have invented ! She 
was fond of searching old curiosity 
shops for odds and ends of lace 
and ancient jewelry, which 
quaintly set off her dainty little 
person. We ransacked half 
Venice in pursuit of an old paste 
buckle which she had caught 
sight of in passing somewhere, 
though just where she could not 
quite remember. She was quite 


190 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


downcast when evening came and 
she had not found it, and the next 
afternoon resolved to try again. 

“ I never saw such a big satis- 
factory one,” she sighed, “ and I 
must have it ! You must help me, 
dear ! The gondoliere is so 
stupid, he can’t understand me ! ” 

So we started again in quest of 
the big buckle. 

“ Let me see,” she said, as we 
sat in the gondola, and the man 
paused for orders — “ Let me see 
— we had gone down a long canal, 
and then round a corner into a 
short one, and then under a 
bridge. I remember that, be- 
cause I thought the gondoliere 
would knock his head against it, 
and I wondered if he could have 
got under it with my high bonnet 
on — oh, I know now ! We came 
to a great dreary church and then 
we turned to the left — or wasn’t it 
the right ? I’m sure I don’t know, 
but I shall remember the place 
when I see it.” 

Strange to say the buckle was 
found. 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. I9I 


“ I feel perfectly happy ! ” she 
said, laying her hand affec- 
tionately on my shoulder when 
we were sitting in the gondola 
again. “ Isn’t it a beauty ? it 
covers half my waist ! Just look ! ” 

I looked obediently, while she 
tried the ornament upon her slim 
little figure. 

“Now advise me!” she went 
on, “ You don’t think it would 
be prettier to loop up the skirt 
with it ? ” 

“ Perhaps,” I said. 

“ Well, you may be right ; but 
then I shall need another for the 
waist, and small ones for the 
throat and wrists — on velvet, of 
course.” 

She looked up at me to see if 
I was properly interested, and 
something — a flight of wheeling 
pigeons perhaps — attracted her 
glance higher. “ What a lovely 
girl 1 ” she cried. “ Oh, do look, 
quick ! ” We were passing the 
Palazzo Barbarigo, and I had 
known where we were but too well. 

I wotild not see her! But now 


192 A SHADOW ON A WAVE.. 


my wife forced me to look up 
into the eyes I had been thirsting 
for through all those tortured 
days — the eyes I shall ever see 
until mine are closed. 

We gazed at each other as 
though we could never part, drink- 
ing each other’s very souls — 
madly, wildly ! 

My wife had dropped her 
cherished buckle, and her hand, 
still upon my shoulder, was 
stooping to search among her 
flounces. We two were face to 
face alone — alone and desolate ! 
She had turned as white as 
marble. A moment more and 
the gondola shot forward. 

“ I’ve found it ! ” said my wife, 
producing the buckle, and turning 
to look back at the motionless 
figure at the window. Isn’t 
she a beauty ! I wonder who 
she is! You’re not a bit enthu- 
siastic 1 It’s very dear and nice 
of you not to care to look at other 
women, you dear old bear!” 
she continued, giving my shoulder 
an approving pat ; “but I couldn’t 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


193 


be jealous if I tried. It’s too 
much trouble. She couldn’t wear 
one of Pingat’s gowns ; she would 
be simply frightful. I wonder if 
that hair was all her own ! That 
sort of color is so difficult to 
match, and it’s dreadfully ex- 
pensive.” 

One thing more she cared for 
in Venice besides hunting for 
jewelry and eating ices in the 
Piazza, and that was our long 
afternoon row to the Lido. She 
liked the soft motion, the gentle 
breeze, and the idleness, and 
would lie back in the deep 
cushioned gondola, or trail her 
little hands through the water, 
playing with the glitter of her 
rings, and looking as fair and 
fresh as though she had just risen 
from the clear depths. She 
talked of Paris and Trouville, 
and detailed to me their pun- 
gent scandal, which, because its 
heroines were faultlessly dressed 
and wore ideal gloves, did not 
seem so sliocking as if they had 
been shabby. 


194 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


“ Now, the hats make such a 
difference,” said she. “ Give a 
woman a good hat and she can 
do almost anything, and nobody 
mind it.” 

It sounded strangely — with the 
sea around us and San Giorgio 
Maggiore rising dark and isolated 
from out of water of molten gold, 
the sky behind it one fiery fleece. 
Her fashionable garments looked 
as incongruous against this 
glorious background as did her 
ripple of worldly gossip strike 
tinkling and out of tune against 
the passionate harmony. It was 
like hearing “ La Vie Parisienne” 
read from the chancel to the tones 
of the organ. 

Almost another fortnight had 
gone by, and we still stayed. 
My wife had discovered a new 
curiosity dealer, and was absorbed 
in his treasures. 

I was utterly thankful for the 
delay, and glad that it should be 
of her doing — that no fault or 
weakness of mine had brought it 
about for me to reproach myself 
with. 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 1 95 


One afternoon we had rowed 
out to Miirano, and were re- 
turning in the heavenly stillness 
of the coming sunset. Sea and 
sky seemed waiting breathless 
before the glory about to burst 
upon them, and we still, too. 
Slowly over the glassy ripples a 
strange vision moved toward us 
— a black pall with silver fringes 
sweeping the water. 

“ It is a funeral,” said the 
gondoliere, indifferently. I won- 
dered who the quiet one within 
might be, so gently carried to his 
last bed. We paused to let it 
pass. A priest sat behind the 
palled coffin, and by his side 
crouched a bent figure with 
bowed head and a bright brass 
badge glistening in the low rays 
of the sun. My heart stood 
still — and then I thought it had 
left me, and was sinking down 
through the water to the rest of 
death. I dully heard the gon- 
doliere say, “It is the Contessina 
Barbarigo — she died yesterday.” 
Then another voice — my wife’s 


196 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


— said, Oh, do ask him about it ! 
It looks so romantic.” 

Encouraged by her lively tone, 
he went on — “ People say she 
died of a passioii — I don’t believe 
them ! It was hunger ! The 
Signore remembers when we 
used to pass her palazzo. What 
a beautiful \Yoman ! ” 

“ I can’t understand him,” said 
my wife. “ What is passion ? ” 

“ A broken heart,” I answered. 
“Oh! Poor thing! Yiovf can 
people die so foolish ! I w'on- 
der where they are taking her to ! 
Do let us follow — I never saw a 
funeral in Venice ! ” 

I tried to say something, but 
my lips would not move, and the 
gondoliere, interpreting her gest- 
ures, rowed slowly behind the 
trailing pall, repeating, “ What 
a beautiful woman ! Poor girl ! 
poor girl ! ” as though he and I 
understood each other. 

On we followed to the dreary 
Camposanto. I do not know 
what I thought — or if I thought 
at all. Something was moaning 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


and weeping within me, whose 
grief scarcely touched me. 

I remember our mounting the 
dank steps arm in arm, my wife 
and I — and their being very 
slippery. I remember going in 
•and out again, of the old church 
— out among the black crosses — 
and thinking how little earth lay 
over the poor bodies, and then 
how we stood by an open grave. 
The bearers who had come out 
to the low sea door, and had 
lifted the coffin from the boat, 
laid it in its shallow resting place ; 
and we — my wife awed and 
serious — heard the earth fall 
upon it. 

It was uncovered of its pall, 
and looked strangely narrow and 
too long for the figure I had seen 
standing in San Marco trans- 
figured in the sunshine. I 
remember, too, mechanically 
measuring the distances and say- 
ing to myself, “ There where the 
black paint is uneven come the 
feet — there beneath the coarsely 
daubed cross are the folded hands, 


198 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


and there lies the head with still 
upturned face — only an inch of 
wood between us ! And yet I did 
not mourn for her ; I was coldly 
trying to fancy how that face 
was looking. A thud of earth 
fell upon the place where the 
closed eyes must be, and I 
almost shrieked as I fancied 
those radiant eyes crowded with 
mold — those parted lips filled 
in with the noisome earth — and 
blind creeping things, such as were 
busy at our feet, groping through 
that wavy hair. 

My wife’s arm was still in mine, 
and she took the unconscious 
pressure for a sign to go. I 
turned to look back. Only a 
little spot on the coffin was still 
uncovered, just enough to lay one’s 
lips to. 

As we passed out, I felt an iron 
grip upon my arm. The old man 
held it as in a vice for one short 
moment, and whispered fiercely 
into my face, “ Canaglia ! ” 

“ What was that strange old 
fellow saying to you ? I suppose 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. I99 


he thought we were intruding/’ 
said my wife, as she stepped 
into the gondola. 

‘‘ I dare say,” I found voice to 
answer. “ It sounded like some- 
thing rude,” she added ; ‘‘ but 
perhaps we have no right to be 
there.” 

Then, silent, we rowed home- 
ward, the sunset blinding my 
eyes and brain. That night, as 
my wife lay quietly sleeping, I 
trusted myself to think of that 
other figure, quiet forever in the 
Camposanto, that white flower 
trodden back to earth again. 
How had they dressed her, in 
immutable calm, for her last 
sleep? Were those perfect 
hands crossed upon her breast ? 
Was a smile upon her face ? 
Was her glorious hair hidden 
from sight? From sight ! Ah! no 
mortal sight would ever feed upon 
that face again I Was she beau- 
tiful still? Yes! to-night and 
to-morrow, perhaps, and then — 
then what arms could clasp her 
without horror ? What arms 


200 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


but mine ? Mine would have 
held her close and never flinched. 

“ God ! keep me from thinking ! ” 
I cried in my agony. At last He 
answered, and sent me sleep — a 
sleep of dreams. I was in my 
gondola again, looking up at her 
window through the sunshine. 
Then she was sitting beside me, 
her hand fast in mine, and I 
told her that I had dreamed she 
was dead ; and we gazed at each 
other in the glory of life. 

She never spoke, but we knew 
that we were happy. I clasped 
her hand more closely still, and 
was saying : 

“ Now I shall never lose you 
again,” when I awoke. My wife’s 
hand lay on mine, and her voice 
was saying : “ I’m afraid you got 
a chill in that dreadful place, 
dear ; you’ve been so restless, 
and your head burns. Don’t 
forget to get some quinine to-day. 
It would be too bad if you were 
to fall ill, and we have to stay 
here forever!” But I did not 
fall ill, and that morning I told 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 201 


her that we would leave in three 
days from then. She went 
eagerly to work at her packing, 
glad to get away, after all, and I 
was left much alone. 

On the day before our depart- 
ure she said, “ My dear, you’re 
awfully fond of me, aren’t you ? ” 
and laid her silky head upon my 
shoulder. 

I looked at her, wondering 
what was coming. 

I know you are,” she mur- 
mured, “ but I want you to be 
very good and show it ! ” 

I drew a long breath of relief. 

I want you to go and get me 
that old silver pin we saw at 
Venturini’s. The more I think 
of it the more wretched I am ; 
and now I know I can’t live with- 
out it. I’ve dreamt of it all these 
nights,” and she clasped her 
hands imploringly. “ I knew you 
wouldn’t say no ! Now go and 
bring it back, quickly, like a dear 
fellow.” 

I found the pin still in the 
dealer’s dusty window, and as I 


202 A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 


entered the shop I turned giddy, 
and the floor seemed to heave 
under my feet. 

On a chair before me stood 
the picture — fresh and trium- 
phantly smiling. I had fancied 
that face — so loving — must some- 
how grieve and pale for her ! 
But it seemed to laugh at death. 

‘‘Ah, you are looking at the 
portrait ! ” said the old dealer. 
“ Take it, Signore. It is a 
masterpiece. But I will not 
ask you its real worth, for it is 
not signed and you will have a 
great bargain. It belonged to 
the Conte Barbarigo — poor gen- 
tleman ! His daughter died the 
other day, and he had to sell it 
to pay for her funeral. He 
would not have that of the poor 
— he was that proud. Well, he 
will have it himself. He was 
found dead in his bed this 
morning — and not a soldo in the 
house to bury him with,” and he 
dusted the fair face, and turned 
it in the best light. He might 
have asked me any sum for it. 


A SHADOW ON A WAVE. 203 


and he looked surprised to be paid 
what he wanted without haggling. 

I see the Signore is worthy 
of it,’' said he. “ Here is some- 
thing else : some lace — modern, 
•but copied from the antique. 
The poor Contessina made it. 
She worked a great deal for me, 
and I always paid her well. Buy 
it for your beautiful Signora ; she 
will like it, and it is , a remem- 
brance of the Casa Barbarigo. 
They were great Signori once, 
and you English people under- 
stand such things.” 

I bought the lace, but I have 
never given it to my wife. It 
lies in a sealed packet, and if the 
direction’s written upon it are 
obeyed it will be burned, mil- 
opened, after my death. 


THE END. 


t 


f 



'i 

9 


9 


/ 






9 




9 






« 

» 
























^ 4 


■< v^ ° - 

C‘ <- > 





^ ^ ^Dso 







